Return  this  book  on  or  before  the 
Latest  Date  stamped  below. 


University  of  Illinois  Library 


■m  -8 


k: 


- 22  !?57 


r-  ~ -•  :'i 


mi 

' i 


1 6 1381 


L!M— H41 


■ 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2016 


https://archive.org/details/mossesfromoldman02hawt 


MOSSES 


FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


By  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE, 


IN  TWO  VOLUMES. 
VOL.  II. 


NE  IV  EDITION , 
CAREFULLY  REVISED  BY  THE  AUTHOR. 


BOSTON: 

TIC KNOB  AND  F 


J E LD  S. 


1867. 


library 


\ 


l 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1854,  by 
NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE, 
in  the  Cle«k’s  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


University  Press: 
Welch,  Bigel  jw,  and  Company, 
Cambridge. 


%'3 

\-\3lrr.£> 

I 

* 7L 


CONTENTS. 


VOL.  II. 


<o 

i 


The  new  Adam  and  Eye, 

Egotism  ; or  the  Bosom  Serpent,  • * 

The  Christmas  Banquet, 

Drowne’s  Wooden  Image,  • • • 

_The  Intelligence  Office, 

Roger  Maltin’ s Burial,  • • • 

P.’s  Correspondence,  .... 
Earth’s  Holocaust,  .... 
Passages  from  a relinquished  Work,  • 
Sketches  from  Memory, 

^ The  old  Apple  Dealer, 

The  Artist  of  the  Beautiful,  . 

A Virtuoso’s  Collection,  • • • 


. 5 

SO 
. 49 
75 
. 92 

ll£l 
. 139 
163 
. 191 
211 
. 231 
240 
. 274 


■*>  5 


(3) 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


THE  NEW  ADAM  AND  EYE. 

We  who  are  born  into  the  world’s  artificial  system 
can  nsver  adequately  know  how  little  in  our  present 
state  and  circumstances  is  natural,  and  how  much  is 
merely  the  interpolation  of  the  perverted  mind  and 
heart  of  man.  Art  has  become  a second  and  stronger 
nature  ; she  is  a stepmother,  whose  crafty  tenderness 
has  taught  us  to  despise  the  bountiful  and  wholesome 
ministrations  of  our  true  parent.  It  is  only  through  the 
medium  of  the  imagination  that  we  can  lessen  those 
iron  fetters,  which  we  call  truth  and  reality,  and  make 
ourselves  even  partially  sensible  what  prisoners  we  are. 
For  instance,  let  us  conceive  good  Father  Miller’s  inter- 
pretation  of  the  prophecies  to  have  proved  true.  The 
Day  of  Doom  has  burst  upon  the  globe  and  swept  away 
the  whole  race  of  men.  From  cities  and  fields,  seashore 
and  midland  mountain  region,  vast  continents,  and  even 
the  remotest  islands  of  the  ocean,  each  living  thing  is 
gone.  No  breath  of  a created  being  disturbs  this  earthly 
atmosphere.  But  the  abodes  of  man,  and  all  that  he  has 
accomplished,  the  footprints  of  his  wanderings  and  the 

(5) 


6 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


results  of  his  toil,  the  visible  symbols  of  his  intellectual 
cultivation  and  moral  progress  — in  short,  every  thing 
physical  that  can  give  evidence  of  his  present  position — 
shall  remain  untouched  by  the  hand  of  destiny.  Then, 
to  inherit  and  repeople  this  waste  and  deserted  earth, 
we  will  suppose  a new  Adam  and  a new  Eve  to  have 
been  created,  in  the  full  development  of  mind  and  heart, 
but  with  no  knowledge  of  their  predecessors  nor  of  the 
diseased  circumstances  that  had  become  encrusted 
around  them.  Such  a pair  would  at  once  distinguish 
between  art  and  nature.  Their  instincts  and  intuitions 
would  immediately  recognize  the  wisdom  and  simplici- 
ty of  the  latter  ; while  the  former,  with  its  elaborate 
perversities,  would  offer  them  a continual  succession 
of  puzzles. 

Let  us  attempt,  in  a mood  half  sportive  and  half 
thoughtful,  to  track  these  imaginary  heirs  of  our  mor- 
tality through  their  first  day’s  experience.  No  longer 
ago  than  yesterday  the  flame  of  human  life  was  extin- 
guished ; there  has  been  a breathless  night ; and  now 
another  morn  approaches,  expecting  to  find  the  earth 
no  less  desolate  than  at  eventide.  A 

It  is  dawn.  The  east  puts  on  its  immemorial  blush, 
although  no  human  eye  is  gazing  at  it ; for  all  the  phe- 
nomena of  the  natural  world  renew  themselves,  in  spite 
of  the  solitude  that  now  broods  around  the  globe.  There 
is  still  beauty  of  earth,  sea,  and  sky,  for  beauty’s  sake. 
But  soon  there  are  to  be  spectators.  Just  when  the  ear- 
liest sunshine  gilds  earth’s  mountain  tops,  t^Vo  beings 
have  come  into  life,  not  in  such  an  Eden  as  bloomed  to 
welcome  our  first  parents,  but  in  the  heart  of  a modern 
city.  They  find  themselves  in  existence,  and  gazing 


THE  NEW  ADAM  AND  EVE. 


1 


into  one  another’s  eyes.  Their  emotion  is  not  aston- 
ishment ; nor  do  they  perplex  themselves  with  efforts 
to  discover  what,  and  whence,  and  why  they  are. 
Each  is  satisfied  to  be,  because  the  other  exists  like- 
wise ; and  their  first  consciousness  is  of  calm  and 
mutual  enjoyment,  which  seems  not  to  have  been  the 
birth  of  that  very  moment,  but  prolonged  from  a past 
eternity.  Thus  content  with  an  inner  sphere  which 
they  inhabit  together,  it  is  not  immediately  that  the  out- 
ward world  can  obtrude  itself  upon  their  notice. 

Soon,  however,  they  feel  the  invincible  necessity  of 
this  earthly  life,  and  begin  to  make  acquaintance  with 
the  objects  and  circumstances  that  surround  them. 
Perhaps  no  other  stride  so  vast  remains  to  be  taken 
as  when  they  first  turn  from  the  reality  of  their  mutual 
glance  to  the  dreams  and  shadows  that  perplex  them 
every  where  else. 

“ Sweetest  Eve,  where  are  we  ? ” exclaims  the  new 
Adam  ; for  speech,  or  some  equivalent  mode ‘of  expres- 
sion, is  born  with  them,  and  comes  just  as  natural  as 
breath.  “ Methinks  I do  not  recognize  this  place.” 

“ Nor  I,  dear  Adam,”  replies  the  new  Eve.  “ And 
what  a strange  place,  too  ! Let  me  come  closer  to  thy 
side  and  behold  thee  only ; for  all  other  sights  trouble 
and  perplex  my  spirit.” 

“ Nay,  Eve,”  replies  Adam,  who  appears  to  have 
the  stronger  tendency  towards  the  material  world  ; u it 
were  well  that  we  gain  some  insight  into  these  matters. 
We  are  in  an  odd  situation  here.  Let  us  look  about 
us.” 

Assuredly  there  are  sights  enough  to  throw  the  new 
inheritors  of  earth  into  a state  of  hopeless  perplexity. 


8 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


The  long  lines  of  edifices,  their  windows  glittering  ♦in 
the  yellow  sunrise,  and  the  narrow  street  between,  with 
its  barren  pavement  tracked  and  battered  by  wheels 
that  have  now  rattled  into  an  irrevocable  past ! The 
signs,  with  their  unintelligible  hieroglyphics ! The 
squareness  and  ugliness,  and  regular  or  irregular  de- 
formity of  every  thing  that  meets  the  eye  ! The  marks 
of  wear  and  tear,  and  unrenewed  decay,  which  distin- 
guish the  works  of  man  from  the  growth  of  nature  ! 
What  is  there  in  all  this,  capable  of  the  slightest  sig- 
nificance to  minds  that  know  nothing  of  the  artificial 
system  which  is  implied  in  every  lamp  post  and  each 
brick  of  the  houses  ? Moreover,  the  utter  loneliness 
and  silence,  in  a scene  that  originally  grew  out  of  noise 
and  bustle,  must  needs  impress  a feeling  of  desolation 
even  upon  Adam  and  Eve,  unsuspicious  as  they  are  of 
the  recent  extinction  of  human  existence.  In  a forest, 
solitude  would  be  life  ; in  a city,  it  is  death. 

The  new  Eve  looks  round  with  a sensation  of  doubt 
and  distrust,  such  as  a city  dame,  the  daughter  of  num- 
berless generations  of  citizens,  might  experience  if 
suddenly  transported  to  the  garden  of  Eden.  At 
length  her  downcast  eye  discovers  a small  tuft  of 
grass,  just  beginning  to  sprout  among  the  stones  of 
the  pavement ; she  eagerly  grasps  it,  and  is  sensible 
that  this  little  herb  awakens  some  response  within  her 
heart.  Nature  finds  nothing  else  to  offer  her.  Adam, 
after  staring  up  and  down  the  street  without  detecting 
a single  object  that  his  comprehension  can  lay  hold  of 
finally  turns  his  forehead  to  the  sky.  There,  indeed, 
is  something  which  the  seul  within  him  recognizes. 

u Look  up  yonder,  mine  own  Eve,”  he  cries  ; “ sure- 


THE  NEW  ADAM  AND  EVE. 


9 


ly  we  ought  to  dwell  among  those  gold-tinged  clouds 
or  in  the  blue  depths  beyond  them.  I know  not  how 
nor  when,  but  evidently  we  have  strayed  away  from 
our  home ; for  I see  nothing  hereabouts  that  seems  to 
belong  to  us.” 

“ Can  we  not  ascend  thither,”  inquires  Eve. 

“ Why  not  ? ” answers  Adam,  hopefully.  u But  no; 
something  drags  us  down  in  spite  of  our  best  efforts. 
Perchance  we  may  find  a path  hereafter.” 

In  the  energy  of  new  life  it  appears  no  such  imprac- 
ticable feat  to  climb  into  the  sky.  But  they  have  al- 
ready received  a woful  lesson,  which  may  finally  go 
far  towards  reducing  them  to  the  level  of  the  departed 
race,  when  they  acknowledge  the  necessity  of  keeping 
the  beaten  track  of  earth.  They  now  set  forth  on  a 
ramble  through  the  city,  in  the  hope  of  making  their 
escape  from  this  uncongenial  sphere.  Already  in  the 
fresh  elasticity  of  their  spirits  they  have  found  the  idea 
of  weariness.  We  will  watch  them  as  they  enter  some 
of  the  shops  and  public  or  private  edifices ; for  every 
door,  whether  of  alderman  or  beggar,  church  or  hall 
of  state,  has  been  flung  wide  open  by  the  same  agency 
that  swept  away  the  inmates. 

It  so  happens  — and  not  unluckily  for  an  Adam  and 
Eve  who  are  still  in  the  costume  that  might  better  have 
befitted  Eden  — it  so  happens  that  their  first  visit  is  to 
a fashionable  dry  goods  store.  No  courteous  and  im- 
portunate attendants  hasten  to  receive  their  orders ; no 
throng  of  ladies  are  tossing  over  the  rich  Parisian 
fabrics.  All  is  deserted ; trade  is  at  a stand  still  • 
and  not  even  an  echo  of  the  national  watchword, 
“ Go  ahead  ! ” disturbs  the  quiet  of  the  new  custom- 


10 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


ers.  But  specimens  of  the  latest  earthly  fashions,  silks 
of  every  shade,  and  whatever  is  most  delicate  or  splen- 
did for  the  decoration  of  the  human  form,  lie  scattered 
around,  profusely  as  bright  autumnal  leaves  in  a forest. 
Adam  looks  at  a few  of  the  articles,  but  throws  them 
carelessly  aside  with  whatever  exclamation  may  corre- 
spond to  “ Pish  ! ” or  “ Pshaw  ! ” in  the  new  vocabulary 
of  nature.  Eve,  however,  — be  it  said  without  offence 
to  her  native  modesty,  — examines  these  treasures  of 
her  sex  with  somewhat  livelier  interest.  A pair  of  cor- 
sets chance  to  lie  upon  the  counter ; she  inspects  them 
curiously,  but  knows  not  what  to  make  of  them.  Then 
she  handles  a fashionable  silk  with  dim  yearnings, 
thoughts  that  wander  hither  and  thither,  instincts  grop- 
ing in  the  dark. 

“ On  the  whole,  I do  not  like  it,”  she  observes,  laying 
the  glossy  fabric  upon  the  counter.  “ But,  Adam,  it  is 
very  strange.  What  can  these  things  mean  ? Surely 
I ought  to  know ; yet  they  put  me  in  a perfect  maze.” 

“ Poh  ! my  dear  Eve,  why  trouble  thy  little  head 
about  such  nonsense  ? ” cries  Adam,  in  a fit  of  impa- 
tience. “ Let  us  go  somewhere  else.  But  stay  ; how 
very  beautiful ! My  loveliest  Eve,  what  a charm  you 
have  imparted  to  that  robe  by  merely  throwing  it  over 
your  shoulders  ! ” 

For  Eve,  with  the  taste  that  nature  moulded  into  ner 
composition,  has  taken  a remnant  of  exquisite  silver 
gauze  and  drawn  it  around  her  form,  with  an  effect  that 
gives  Adam  his  first  idea  of  the  witchery  of  dress.  He 
beholds  his  spouse  in  a new  light  and  with  renewed 
admiration ; yet  is  hardly  reconciled  to  any  other  attire 
than  her  own  golden  locks.  However,  emulating  Eve’s 


THE  NEW  ADAM  AND  EYE. 


11 


example,  he  makes  free  with  a mantle  of  blue  velvet, 
and  puts  it  on  so  picturesquely  that  it  might  seem  to 
have  fallen  from  heaven  upon  his  stately  figure.  Thus 
garbed  they  go  in  search  of  new  discoveries. 

They  next  wander  into  a Church,  not  to  make  a dis- 
play of  their  fine  clothes,  but  attracted  by  its  spire, 
pointing  upwards  to  the  sky,  whither  they  have  already 
yearned  to  climb.  As  they  enter  the  portal,  a clock, 
which  it  was  the  last  earthly  act  of  the  sexton  to  wind 
up,  repeats  the  hour  in  deep  reverberating  tones  ; for 
Time  has  survived  his  former  progeny,  and,  with  the 
iron  tongue  that  man  gave  him,  is  now  speaking  to  his 
two  grandchildren.  They  listen,  but  understand  him 
not.  Nature  would  measure  time  by  the  succession  of 
thoughts  and  acts  which  constitute  real  life,  and  not  by 
hours  of  emptiness.  They  pass  up  the  church  aisle, 
and  raise  their  eyes  to  the  ceiling.  Had  our  Adam 
and  Eve  become  mortal  in  some  European  city,  and 
strayed  into  the  vastness  and  sublimity  of  an  old  cathe- 
dral, they  might  have  recognized  the  purpose  for  which 
the  deep-souled  founders  reared  it.  Like  the  dim  awful- 
ness of  an  ancient  forest,  its  very  atmosphere  would 
have  incited  them  to  prayer.  Within  the  snug  walls 
of  a metropolitan  church  there  can  be  no  such  influ- 
ence. 

Yet  some  odor  of  religion  is  still  lingering  here, 
the  bequest  of  pious  souls,  who  had  grace  to  enjoy 
a foretaste  of  immortal  life.  Perchance  they  breathe 
a prophecy  of  a better  world  to  their  successors,  who 
have  become  obnoxious  to  all  their  own  cares  and  ca- 
lamities in  the  present  one. 

“ Eve,  something  impels  me  to  look  upward,”  says 


12 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


Adam ; “ but  it  troubles  me  to  see  this  roof  between  us 
and  the  sky.  Let  us  go  forth,  and  perhaps  we  shall 
discern  a Great  Face  looking  down  upon  us.” 

u Yes  ; a Great  Face,  with  a beam  of  love  brighten- 
ing over  it,  like  sunshine,”  responds  Eve.  “ Surely 
we  have  seen  such  a countenance  somewhere.” 

They  go  out  of  the  church,  and  kneeling  at  its  thresh- 
old give  way  to  the  spirit’s  natural  instinct  of  adora- 
tion towards  a beneficent  Father.  But,  in  truth,  their 
life  thus  far  has  been  a continual  prayer.  Purity  and 
simplicity  hold  converse  at  every  moment  with  their 
Creator. 

We  now  observe  them  entering  a Court  of  Justice. 
But  what  remotest  conception  can  they  attain  of  the 
purposes  of  such  an  edifice  ? How  should  the  idea 
occur  to  them  that  human  brethren,  of  like  nature  with 
themselves,  and  originally  included  in  the  same  law  of 
love  which  is  their  only  rule  of  life,  should  ever  need 
an  outward  enforcement  of  the  true  voice  within  their 
souls  ? And  what,  save  a woful  experience,  the  dark 
result  of  many  centuries,  could  teach  them  the  sad 
mysteries  of  crime  ? O,  Judgment  Seat,  not  by  the 
pure  in  heart  wast  thou  established,  nor  in  the  simpli- 
city of  nature  ; but  by  hard  and  wrinkled  men,  and 
upon  the  accumulated  heap  of  earthly  wrong.  Thou 
art  the  very  symbol  of  man’s  perverted  state. 

On  as  fruitless  an  errand  our  wanderers  next  visit  a 
Hall  of  Legislature,  where  Adam  places  Eve  in  the 
Speaker’s  chair,  unconscious  of  the  moral  which  he 
thus  exemplifies.  Man’s  intellect,  moderated  by  Wo- 
man’s tenderness  and  moral  sense  ! Were  such  the 
legislation  of  the  world  there  would  be  no  need  of  State 


THE  NEW  ADAM  AND  EVE. 


13 


Houses,  Capitols,  Halls  of  Parliament,  nor  even  of  those 
little  assemblages  of  patriarchs  beneath  the  shadowy 
trees,  by  whom  freedom  was  -first  interpreted  to  man- 
kind on  our  native  shores. 

Whither  go  they  next  ? A perverse  destiny  seems 
to  perplex  them  with  one  after  another  of  the  riddles 
which  mankind  put  forth  to  the  wandering  universe,  and 
left  unsolved  in  their  own  destruction.  They  enter  an 
edifice  of  stern  gray  stone  standing  insulated  in  the 
midst  of  others,  and  gloomy  even  in  the  sunshine, 
# which  it  barely  suffers  to  penetrate  through  its  iron 
grated  windows.  It  is  a prison.  The  jailer  has  left  his 
post  at  the  summons  of  a stronger  authority  than  the 
sheriff’s.  But  the  prisoners  ? Did  the  messenger  of 
fate,  when  he  shook  open  all  the  doors,  respect  the 
magistrate’s  warrant  and  the  judge’s  sentence,  and  leave 
the  inmates  of  the  dungeons  to  be  delivered  by  due 
course  of  earthly  law  ? No ; a new  trial  has  been 
granted  in  a higher  court,  which  may  set  judge,  jury, 
and  prisoner  at  its  bar  all  in  a row,  and  perhaps  find 
one  no  less  guilty  than  another.  The  jail,  like  the 
whole  earth,  is  now  a solitude,  and  has  thereby  lost 
something  of  its  dismal  gloom.  But  here  are  the  nar- 
row cells,  like  tombs,  only  drearier  and  deadlier,  be- 
cause in  these  the  immortal  spirit  was  buried  with  the 
body.  Inscriptions  appear  on  the  walls,  scribbled  with 
a pencil  or  scratched  with  a rusty  nail ; brief  words  of 
agony,  perhaps,  or  guilt’s  desperate  defiance  to  the 
world,  or  merely  a record  of  a date  by  which  the  writer 
strove  to  keep  up  with  the  march  of  life.  There  is  not 
a living  eye  that  could  now  decipher  these  memorials. 

Nor  is  it  while  so  fresh  from  their  Creator’s  hand 


14 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


that  the  new  denizens  of  earth  — no,  nor  their  descend- 
ants for  a thousand  years  — could  discover  that  this  ed- 
ifice was  a hospital  for  the  direst  disease  which  could  af- 
flict their  predecessors.  Its  patients  bore  the  outward 
marks  of  that  leprosy  with  which  all  were  more  or  less 
infected.  They  were  sick  — and  so  were  the  purest 
of  their  brethren  — with  the  plague  of  sin.  A deadly 
sickness,  indeed  ! Feeling  its  symptoms  within  the 
breast,  men  concealed  it  with  fear  and  shame,  and 
were  only  the  more  cruel  to  those  unfortunates  whose 
pestiferous  sores  were  flagrant  to  the  common  eye.  % 
Nothing  save  a rich  garment  could  ever  hide  the  plague 
spot.  In  the  course  of  the  world’s  lifetime,  every  rem- 
edy was  tried  for  its  cure  and  extirpation,  except  the 
single  one,  the  flower  that  grew  in  Heaven  and  was 
sovereign  for  all  the  miseries  of  earth.  Man  never 
had  attempted  to  cure  sin  by  Love  ! Had  he  but  once 
made  the  effort  it  might  well  have  happened  that  there 
would  have  been  no  more  need  of  the  dark  lazar  house 
into  which  Adam  and  Eve  have  wandered.  Hasten 
forth  with  your  native  innocence,  lest  the  damps  of 
these  still  conscious  walls  infect  you  likewise,  and  thus 
another  fallen  race  be  propagated  ! 

Passing  from  the  interior  of  the  prison  into  the  space 
within  its  outward  wall,  Adam  pauses  beneath  a struc- 
ture of  the  simplest  contrivance,  yet  altogether  unac- 
countable to  him.  It  consists  merely  of  two  upright 
posts,  supporting  a transverse  beam,  from  which  dangles 
a cord. 

“ Eve,  Eve  ! ” cries  Adam,  shuddering  with  a name- 
less horror.  “ What  can  this  thing  be  ? ” 

u I know  not,”  answers  Eve  ; “ but,  Adam,  my  heart 


THE  NEW  ADAM  AND  EYE. 


15 


is  sick ! There  seems  to  be  no  more  sky  — no  more 
sunshine  ! ” 

Well  might  Adam  shudder  and  poor  Eve  be  sick  at 
heart ; for  this  mysterious  object  was  the  type  of  man- 
kind’s whole  system  in  regard  to  the  great  difficulties 
which  God  had  given  to  be  solved  — a system  of  fear 
and  vengeance,  never  successful,  yet  followed  to  the 
last.  Here,  on  the  morning  when  the  final  summons 
came,  a criminal  — one  criminal,  where  none  were 
guiltless  — had  died  upon  the  gallows.  Had  the  world 
heard  the  footfall  of  its  own  approaching  doom,  it  would 
have  been  no  inappropriate  act  thus  to  close  the  record 
of  its  deeds  by  one  so  characteristic. 

The  two  pilgrims  now  huny  from  the  prison.  Had 
they  known  how  the  former  inhabitants  of  earth  were 
shut  up  in  artificial  error  and  cramped  and  chained  by 
their  perversions,  they  might  have  compared  the  whole 
moral  world  to  a prison  house,  and  have  deemed  the 
removal  of  the  race  a general  jail  delivery. 

They  next  enter,  unannounced,  but  they  might  have 
rung  at  the  door  in  vain,  a private  mansion,  one  of  the 
stateliest  in  Beacon  Street.  A wild  and  plaintive  strain 
of  music  is  quivering  through  the  house,  now  rising 
like  a solemn  organ  peal,  and  now  dying  into  the  faint- 
est murmur,  as  if  some  spirit  that  had  felt  an  interest 
in  the  departed  family  were  bemoaning  itself  in  the 
solitude  of  hall  and  chamber.  Perhaps  a virgin,  the 
purest  of  mortal  race,  has  been  left  behind  to  perform 
u requiem  for  the  whole  kindred  of  humanity.  Not  so. 
These  are  the  tones  of  an  ASolian  harp,  through  which 
Nature  pours  the  harmony  that  lies  concealed  in  her 
every  breath,  whether  of  summer  breeze  or  tempest 


16 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


Adam  and  Eve  are  lost  in  rapture,  unmingled  with  sur- 
prise. The  passing  wind,  that  stirred  the  harp  strings, 
has  been  hushed,  before  they  can  think  of  examining 
the  splendid  furniture,  the  gorgeous  carpets,  and  the 
architecture  of  the  rooms.  These  things  amuse  their 
unpractised  eyes,  but  appeal  to  nothing  within  their 
hearts.  Even  the  pictures  upon  the  walls  scarcely  ex- 
cite a deeper  interest ; for  there  is  something  radically 
artificial  and  deceptive  in  painting  with  which  minds  in 
the  primal  simplicity  cannot  sympathize.  The  unbid- 
den guests  examine  a row  of  family  portraits,  but  are 
too  dull  to  recognize  them  as  men  and  women,  beneath 
the  disguise  of  a preposterous  garb,  and  with  features 
and  expression  debased,  because  inherited  through  ages 
of  moral  and  physical  decay. 

Chance,  however,  presents  them  with  pictures  of  hu- 
man beauty,  fresh  from  the  hand  of  Nature.  As  they 
enter  a magnificent  apartment  they  are  astonished,  but 
not  affrighted,  to  perceive  two  figures  advancing  to 
meet  them.  Is  it  not  awful  to  imagine  that  any  life, 
save  their  own,  should  remain  in  the  wide  world  ? 

u How  is  this  ? ” exclaims  Adam.  “ My  beautiful 
Eve,  are  you  in  two  places  at  once  ? ” 

u And  you,  Adam  ! ” answers  Eve,  doubtful,  yet  de- 
lighted. u Surely  that  noble  and  lovely  form  is  yours. 
Yet  here  you  are  by  my  side.  I am  content  with  one 
— methinks  there  should  not  be  two.” 

This  miracle  is  wrought  by  a tall  looking  glass,  the 
mystery  of  which  they  soon  fathom,  because  Nature 
creates  a mirror  for  the  human  face  in  every  pool  of 
water,  and  for  her  own  great  features  in  waveless  lakes. 
Pleased  and  satisfied  with  gazing  at  themselves,  they 


THE  NEW  ADAM  AND  EVE. 


17 


now  discover  the  marble  statue  of  a child  in  a corner 
of  the  room  so  exquisitely  idealized  that  it  is  almost 
worthy  to  be  the  prophetic  likeness  of  their  first  born. 
Sculpture,  in  its  highest  excellence,  is  more  genuine 
than  painting,  and  might  seem  to  be  evolved  from  a 
natural  germ,  by  the  same  law  as  a leaf  or  flower. 
The  statue  of  the  child  impresses  the  solitary  pair  as 
if  it  were  a companion  ; it  likewise  hints  at  secrets  both 
of  the  past  and  future. 

44  My  husband  ! ” whispers  Eve. 

44  What  would  you  say,  dearest  Eve  ? ” inquires 
Adam. 

44 1 wonder  if  we  are  alone  in  the  world,”  she  con- 
tinues, with  a sense  of  something  like  fear  at  the 
thought  of  other  inhabitants.  44  This  lovely  little  form ! 
Did  it  ever  breathe  ? Or  is  it  only  the  shadow  of 
something  real,  like  our  pictures  in  the  mirror  ? ” 

44  It  is  strange!  ” replies  Adam,  pressing  his  hand  to 
his  brow.  44  There  are  mysteries  all  around  us.  An 
idea  flits  continually  before  me  — would  that  I could 
seize  it ! Eve,  Eve,  are  we  treading  in  the  footsteps 
of  beings  that  bore  a likeness  to  ourselves?  If  so, 
whither  are  they  gone  ? — and  why  is  their  world  so 
unfit  for  our  dwelling  place  ? ” 

44  Our  great  Father  only  knows,”  answers  Eve. 
44  But  something  tells  me  that  we  shall  not  always  be 
alone.  And  how  sweet  if  other  beings  were  to  visit  us 
in  the  shape  of  this  fair  image  ! ” 

Then  they  wander  through  the  house,  and  every  where 
find  tokens  of  human  life,  which  now,  with  the  idea  re- 
cently suggested,  excite  a deeper  curiosity  in  their 
bosoms.  Woman  has  here  left  traces  of  her  delicacy 
VOL.  II.  ' 2 


18 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


and  refinement,  and  of  her  gentle  labors.  Eve  ran- 
sacks a work  basket  and  instinctively  thrusts  the  rosy 
tip  of  her  finger  into  a thimble.  She  takes  up  a piece 
of  embroidery,  glowing  with  mimic  flowers,  in  one  of 
which  a fair  damsel  of  the  departed  race  has  left  her 
needle.  Pity  that  the  Day  of  Doom  should  have  anti- 
cipated the  completion  of  such  a useful  task ! Eve 
feels  almost  conscious  of  the  skill  to  finish  it.  A piano- 
forte has  been  left  open.  She  flings  her  hand  care- 
lessly over  the  keys,  and  strikes  out  a sudden  melody, 
no  less  natural  than  the  strains  of  the  iEolian  harp,  but 
joyous  with  the  dance  of  her  yet  unburdened  life. 
Passing  through  a dark  entry  they  find  a broom  behind 
the  door  ; and  Eve,  who  comprises  the  whole  nature 
of  womanhood,  has  a dim  idea  that  it  is  an  instrument 
proper  for  her  hand.  In  another  apartment  they  be- 
hold a canopied  bed,  and  all  the  appliances  of  luxurious 
repose.  A heap  of  forest  leaves  would  be  more  to  the 
purpose.  They  enter  the  nursery,  and  are  perplexed 
with  the  sight  of  little  gowns  and  caps,  tiny  shoes,  and 
a cradle,  amid  the  drapery  of  which  is  still  to  be  seen 
the  impress  of  a baby’s  form.  Adam  slightly  notices 
these  trifles  ; but  Eve  becomes  involved  in  a fit  of 
mute  reflection  from  which  it  is  hardly  possible  to  rouse 
her. 

By  a most  unlucky  arrangement  there  was  to  have 
been  a grand  dinner  party  in  this  mansion  on  the  very 
day  when  the  whole  human  family,  including  the  in- 
vited guests,  were  summoned  to  the  unknown  regions 
of  illimitable  space.  At  the  moment  of  fate,  the  table 
was  actually  spread,  and  the  company  on  the  point  of 
sitting  down.  Adam  and  Eve  come  unbidden  to  the 


THE  NEW  ADAM  AND  EYE. 


19 


Danquet ; it  has  now  been  some  time  cold,  but  otherwise 
furnishes  them  with  highly  favorable  specimens  of  the 
gastronomy  of  their  predecessors.  But  it  is  difficult  to 
imagine  the  perplexity  of  the  unperverted  couple,  in  en- 
deavoring to  find  proper  food  for  their  first  meal,  at  a 
table  where  the  cultivated  appetites  of  a fashionable 
party  were  to  have  been  gratified.  Will  Nature  teach 
them  the  mystery  of  a plate  of  turtle  soup  ? Will 
she  embolden  them  to  attack  a haunch  of  venison? 
Will  she  initiate  them  into  the  merits  of  a Parisian  pasty, 
imported  by  the  last  steamer  that  ever  crossed  the  At- 
lantic ? Will  she  not,  rather,  bid  them  turn  with  dis- 
gust from  fish,  fowl,  and  flesh,  which,  to  their  pure  nos- 
trils, steam  with  a loathsome  odor  of  death  and  corrup- 
tion ? — Food  ? The  bill  of  fare  contains  nothing  which 
they  recognize  as  such. 

Fortunately,  however,  the  dessert  is  ready  upon  a 
neighboring  table.  Adam,  whose  appetite  and  animal 
instincts  are  quicker  than  those  of  Eve,  discovers  this 
fitting  banquet. 

“ Here,  dearest  Eve,”  he  exclaims,  u here  is 
food.” 

“ Well,”  answered  she,  with  the  germ  of  a housewife 
stirring  within  her,  u we  have  been  so  busy  to-day,  that 
a picked-up  dinner  must  serve.” 

So  Eve  comes  to  the  table  and  receives  a red-cheeked 
apple  from  her  husband’s  hand  in  requital  of  her  prede- 
cessor’s fatal  gift  to  our  common  grandfather.  She 
eats  it  without  sin,  and,  let  us  hope,  with  no  disastrous 
consequences  to  her  future  progeny.  They  make  a 
plentiful,  yet  temperate,  meal  of  fruit,  which,  though  not 
gathered  in  paradise,  is  legitimately  derived  from  the 


20 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


sends  that  were  planted  there.  Their  primal  appetite 
is  satisfied. 

“ What  shall  we  drink,  Eve  ? ” inquires  Adam. 

Eve  peeps  among  some  bottles  and  decanters,  which, 
as  they  contain  fluids,  she  naturally  conceives  must  be 
proper  to  quench  thirst.  But  never  before  did  claret, 
hock,  and  madeira,  of  rich  and  rare  perfume,  excite 
such  disgust  as  now. 

“ Pah ! ” she  exclaims,  after  smelling  at  various 
wines.  “ What  stuff*  is  here  ? The  beings  who  have 
gone  before  us  could  not  have  possessed  the  same  na- 
ture that  we  do  ; for  neither  their  hunger  nor  thirst  were 
like  our  own.” 

“ Pray  hand  me  yonder  bottle,”  says  Adam.  “ If  it 
be  drinkable  by  any  manner  of  mortal,  I must  moisten 
my  throat  with  it.” 

After  some  remonstrances,  she  takes  up  a champagne 
bottle,  but  is  frightened  by  the  sudden  explosion  of  the 
cork,  and  drops  it  upon  the  floor.  There  the  un tasted 
liquor  effervesces.  Had  they  quaffed  it  they  would 
have  experienced  that  brief  delirium  whereby,  whether 
excited  by  moral  or  physical  causes,  man  sought  to 
recompense  himself  for  the  calm,  lifelong  joys  which 
he  had  lost  by  his  revolt  from  Nature.  At  length,  in  a 
refrigerator,  Eve  finds  a glass  pitcher  of  water,  pure, 
cold,  and  bright  as  ever  gushed  from  a fountain  among 
the  hills.  Both  drink ; and  such  refreshment  does  it 
bestow,  that  they  question  one  another  if  this  precious 
liquid  be  not  identical  with  the  stream  of  life  within 
them. 

“ And  now,”  observes  Adam,  “ we  must  again  try  to 
discover  what  sort  of  a world  this  is,  and  why  we  have 
been  sent  hither.” 


THE  NEW  ADAM  AND  EYE. 


21 


Why  ? to  love  one  another,”  cries  Eve.  45  Is  not 
that  employment  enough  ? ” 

44  Truly  is  it,”  answers  Adam,  kissing  her  ; 46  but 
still  — I know  not  — something  tells  us  there  is  labor  to 
be  done.  Perhaps  our  allotted  task  is  no  other  than  to 
climb  into  the  sky,  which  is  so  much  more  beautiful  than 
earth.” 

44  Then  would  we  were  there  now,”  murmurs  Eve, 
“ that  no  task  or  duty  might  come  between  us ! ” 

They  leave  the  hospitable  mansion,  and  we  next  see 
them  passing  down  State  Street.  The  clock  on  the  old 
State  House  points  to  high  noon,  when  the  Exchange 
should  be  in  its  glory  and  present  the  liveliest  emblem  of 
what  was  the  sole  business  of  life,  as  regarded  a multi- 
tude of  the  foregone  worldlings.  It  is  over  now.  The 
Sabbath  of  eternity  has  shed  its  stillness  along  the  street. 
Not  even  a newsboy  assails  the  two  solitary  passers  by 
with  an  extra  penny  paper  from  the  office  of  the  Times 
or  Mail,  containing  a full  account  of  yesterday’s  terrible 
catastrophe.  Of  all  the  dull  times  that  merchants  and 
speculators  have  known,  this  is  the  very  worst ; for,  so 
far  as  they  were  concerned,  creation  itself  has  taken 
the  benefit  of  the  bankrupt  act.  After  all,  it  is  a pity. 
Those  mighty  capitalists  who  had  just  attained  the 
wished-for  wealth  ! Those  shrewd  men  of  traffic  who 
had  devoted  so  many  years  to  tfte  most  intricate  and 
artificial  of  sciences,  and  had  barely  mastered  it  when 
the  universal  bankruptcy  was  announced  by  peal  of 
trumpet ! Can  they  have  been  so  incautious  as  to  pro- 
vide no  currency  of  the  country  whither  they  have  gone, 
nor  any  bills  of  exchange,  or  letters  of  credit  from  the 
needy  on  earth  to  the  cash  keepers  of  heaven  ? 


22 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


Adam  and  Eve  enter  a Bank.  Start  not,  ye  whose 
funds  are  treasured  there  ! You  will  never  need  them 
now.  Call  not  for  the  police.  The  stones  of  the  street 
and  the  coin  of  the  vaults  are  of  equal  value  to  this  simple 
pair.  Strange  sight ! They  take  up  the  bright  gold  in 
handfuls  and  throw  it  sportively  into  the  air  for  the 
sake  of  seeing  the  glittering  worthlessness  descend 
again  in  a shower.  They  know  not  that  each  of  those 
small  yellow  circles  was  once  a magic  spell,  potent  to 
sway  men’s  hearts  and  mystify  their  moral  sense. 
Here  let  them  pause  in  the  investigation  of  the  past. 
They  have  discovered  the  mainspring,  the  life,  the  very 
essence  of  the  system  that  had  wrought  itself  into  the 
vitals  of  mankind,  and  choked  their  original  nature  in 
its  deadly  gripe.  Yet  how  powerless  over  these  young 
inheritors  of  earth’s  hoarded  wealth ! And  here,  too, 
are  huge  packages  of  bank  notes,  those  talismanic  slips 
of  paper  which  once  had  the  efficacy  to  build  up  en- 
chanted palaces  like  exhalations,  and  work  all  kinds  of 
perilous  wonders,  yet  were  themselves  but  the  ghosts 
of  money,  the  shadows  of  a shade.  How  like  is  this 
vault  to  a magician’s  cave  when  the  all-powerful  wand 
is  broken,  and  the  visionary  splendor  vanished,  and  the 
floor  strown  with  fragments  of  shattered  spells,  and 
lifeless  shapes,  once  animated  by  demons  ! 

w Every  where,  my  dear  Eve,”  observes  Adam,  “ we 
find  heaps  of  rubbish  of  one  kind  or  another.  Some- 
body, I am  convinced,  has  taken  pains  to  collect  them, 
but  for  what  purpose  ? Perhaps,  hereafter,  we  shall  be 
moved  to  do  the  like.  Can  that  be  our  business  in  the 
world  ? ” 

“ O,  no,  no,  Adam  ! ” answers  Eve.  “ It  would 


THE  NEW  ADAM  AND  EVE. 


23 


be  better  to  sit  down  quietly  and  look  upward  to  the 
sky.” 

They  leave  the  Bank,  and  in  good  time ; for  had 
they  tarried  later  they  would  probably  have  encountered 
some  gouty  old  goblin  of  a capitalist,  whose  soul  could 
not  long  be  any  where  save  in  the  vault  with  his  treasure. 

Next  they  drop  into  a jeweller’s  shop.  They  are 
pleased  with  the  glow  of  gems  ; and  Adam  twines  a 
string  of  beautiful  pearls  around  the  head  of  Eve,  and 
fastens  his  own  mantle  with  a magnificent  diamond 
brooch.  Eve  thanks  him,  and  views  herself  with  de- 
light in  the  nearest  looking  glass.  Shortly  afterward, 
observing  a bouquet  of  roses  and  other  brilliant  flowers  in 
a vase  of  water,  she  flings  away  the  inestimable  pearls, 
and  adorns  herself  with  these  lovelier  gems  of  nature. 
They  charm  her  with  sentiment  as  well  as  beauty. 

“ Surely  they  are  living  beings,”  she  remarks  to 
Adam. 

“ I think  so,”  replies  Adam,  “ and  they  seem  to  be 
as  little  at  home  in  the  world  as  ourselves.” 

We  must  not  attempt  to  follow  every  footstep  of  these 
investigators  whom  their  Creator  has  commissioned  to 
pass  unconscious  judgment  upon  the  works  and  ways  of 
the  vanished  race.  By  this  time,  being  endowed  with 
quick  and  accurate  perceptions,  they  begin  to  under- 
stand the  purpose  of  the  many  things  around  them. 
They  conjecture,  for  instance,  that  the  edifices  of  the 
city  were  erected,  not  by  the  immediate  hand  that  made 
the  world,  but  by  beings  somewhat  similar  to  themselves, 
for  shelter  and  convenience.  But  how  will  they  explain 
the  magnificence  of  one  habitation  as  compared  with  the 
squalid  misery  of  another  ? Through  what  medium 


24 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


can  the  idea  of  servitude  enter  their  minds  ? When 
will  they  comprehend  the  great  and  miserable  fact — - 
the  evidences  of  which  appeal  to  their  senses  every 
where  — that  one  portion  of  earth’s  lost  inhabitants  was 
rolling  in  luxury  while  the  multitude  was  toiling  for 
scanty  food  ? A wretched  change,  indeed,  must  be 
wrought  in  their  own  hearts  ere  they  can  conceive  the 
primal  decree  of  Love  to  have  been  so  completely 
abrogated,  that  a brother  should  ever  want  what  his 
brother  had.  When  their  intelligence  shall  have 
reached  so  far,  Earth’s  new  progeny  will  have  little 
reason  to  exult  over  her  old  rejected  one. 

Their  wanderings  have  now  brought  them  into  the 
suburbs  of  the  city.  They  stand  on  a grassy  brow  of  a 
hill  at  the  foot  of  a granite  obelisk  which  points  its 
great  finger  upwards,  as  if  the  human  family  had 
agreed,  by  a visible  symbol  of  age-long  endurance,  to 
offer  some  high  sacrifice  of  thanksgiving  or  supplica- 
tion. The  solemn  height  of  the  monument,  its  deep 
simplicity,  and  the  absence  of  any  vulgar  and  practical 
use,  all  strengthen  its  effect  upon  Adam  and  Eve,  and 
leave  them  to  interpret  it  by  a purer  sentiment  than  the 
builders  thought  of  expressing. 

“ Eve,  it  is  a visible  prayer,”  observed  Adam. 

“ And  we  will  pray  too,”  she  replies. 

Let  us  pardon  these  poor  children  of  neither  father 
nor  mother  for  so  absurdly  mistaking  the  purport  of  the 
memorial  which  man  founded  and  woman  finished  on 
far-famed  Bunker  Hill.  The  idea  of  war  is  not  native 
to  their  souls.  Nor  have  they  sympathies  for  the  brave 
defenders  of  liberty,  since  oppression  is  one  of  their 
unconjectured  mysteries.  Could  they  guess  that  the 


THE  NEW  ADAM  AND  EVE. 


25 


green  sward  on  which  they  stand  so  peacefully  was 
once  strewn  with  human  corpses  and  purple  with  their 
blood,  it  would  equally  amaze  them  that  one  generation 
of  men  should  perpetrate  such  carnage,  and  that  a 
subsequent  generation  should  triumphantly  commemo- 
rate it. 

With  a sense  of  delight  they  now  stroll  across  green 
fields  and  along  the  margin  of  a quiet  river.  Not  to 
track  them  too  closely,  we  next  find  the  wanderers  en- 
tering a Gothic  edifice  of  gray  stone,  where  the  by-gone 
world  has  left  whatever  it  deemed  worthy  of  record,  in 
the  rich  library  of  Harvard  University. 

No  student  ever  yet  enjoyed  such  solitude  and  silence 
as  now  broods  within  its  deep  alcoves.  Little  do  the 
present  visitors  understand  what  opportunities  are 
thrown  away  upon  them.  Yet  Adam  looks  anxiously 
at  the  long  rows  of  volumes,  those  storied  heights  of 
human  lore,  ascending  one  above  another  from  floor  to 
ceiling.  He  takes  up  a bulky  folio.  It  opens  in  his 
hands  as  if  spontaneously  to  impart  the  spirit  of  its 
author  to  the  yet  unworn  and  untainted  intellect  of  the 
fresh-created  mortal.  He  stands  poring  over  the  regu- 
lar columns  of  mystic  characters,  seemingly  in  studious 
mood  ; for  the  unintelligible  thought  upon  the  page  has 
a mysterious  relation  to  his  mind,  and  makes  itself  felt 
as  if  it  were  a burden  flung  upon  him.  He  is  even 
painfully  perplexed,  and  grasps  vainly  at  he  knows  not 
what.  O,  Adam,  it  is  too  soon,  too  soon  by  at  least 
five  thousand  years,  to  put  on  spectacles  and  bury  your- 
self in  the  alcoves  of  a library  ! 

46  What  can  this  be  ? ” he  murmurs  at  last.  “ Eve, 
niethinks  nothing  is  so  desirable  as  to  find  out  the  mys- 


26 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


tery  of  this  big  and  heavy  object  with  its  thousand  thin 
divisions.  See  ! it  stares  me  in  the  face  as  if  it  were 
about  to  speak  ! ” 

Eve,  by  a feminine  instinct,  is  dipping  into  a volume 
of  fashionable  poetry,  the  production  certainly  the  most 
foitunate  of  earthly  bards,  since  his  lay  continues  in 
vogue  when  all  the  great  masters  of  the  lyre  have  passed 
into  oblivion.  But  let  not  his  ghost  be  too  exultant ! 
The  world’s  one  lady  tosses  the  book  upon  the  floor  and 
laughs  merrily  at  her  husband’s  abstracted  mien. 

“ My  dear  Adam,”  cries  she,  “ you  look  pensive  and 
dismal.  Do  fling  down  that  stupid  thing  ; for  even  if  it 
should  speak  it  would  not  be  worth  attending  to.  Let 
us  talk  with  one  another,  and  with  the  sky,  and  the 
green  earth,  and  its  trees  and  flowers.  They  will  teach 
us  better  knowledge  than  we  can  find  here.” 

“ Well,  Eve,  perhaps  you  are  right,”  replies  Adam, 
with  a sort  of  sigh.  “ Still  I cannot  help  thinking 
that  the  interpretation  of  the  riddles  amid  which  we 
have  been  wandering  all  day  long  might  here  be  dis- 
covered.” 

“ It  may  be  better  not  to  seek  the  interpretation,”  per- 
sists Eve.  “ For  my  part,  the  air  of  this  place  does  not 
suit  me.  If  you  love  me,  come  away  ! ” 

She  prevails,  and  rescues  him  from  the  mysterious 
perils  of  the  library.  Happy  influence  of  woman ! 
Had  he  lingered  there  long  enough  to  obtain  a clue  to 
its  treasures,  — as  was  not  impossible,  his  intellect  being 
t f human  structure,  indeed,  but  with  an  untransmitted 
vigor  and  acuteness,  — had  he  then  and  there  become 
a student,  the  annalist  of  our  poor  world  would  soon 
have  recorded  the  downfall  of  a second  Adam.  The 


THE  NEW  ADAM  AND  EVE. 


27 


fatal  apple  of  another  Tree  of  Knowledge  would  have 
been  eaten.  All  the  perversions,  and  sophistries,  and 
false  wisdom  so  aptly  mimicking  the  true  — all  the 
narrow  truth,  so  partial  that  it  becomes  more  deceptive 
than  falsehood  — all  the  wrong  principles  and  worse 
practice,  the  pernicious  examples  and  mistaken  rules 
of  life  — all  the  specious  theories  which  turn  earth  into 
cloudland  and  men  into  shadows  — all  the  sad  experi- 
ence which  it  took  mankind  so  many  ages  to  accumu- 
late, and  from  which  they  never  drew  a moral  for  their 
future  guidance,  — the  whole  heap  of  this  disastrous 
lore  would  have  tumbled  at  once  upon  Adam’s  head. 
There  would  have  been  nothing  left  for  him  but  to 
take  up  the  already  abortive  experiment  of  life  where 
we  had  dropped  it,  and  toil  onward  with  it  a little 
further. 

But,  blessed  in  his  ignorance,  he  may  still  enjoy  a 
new  world  in  our  wornout  one.  Should  he  fall  short 
of  good,  even  as  far  as  we  did,  he  has  at  least  the  free- 
dom — no  worthless  one  — to  make  errors  for  himself. 
And  his  literature,  when  the  progress  of  centuries  shall 
create  it,  will  be  no  interminably  repeated  echo  of  our 
own  poetry  and  reproduction  of  the  images  that  were 
moulded  by  our  great  fathers  of  song  and  fiction,  but  a 
melody  never  yet  heard  on  earth,  and  intellectual  forms 
unbreathed  upon  by  our  conceptions.  Therefore  let 
the  dust  of  ages  gather  upon  the  volumes  of  the  libra- 
ry, and  in  due  season  the  roof  of  the  edifice  crumble 
down  upon  the  whole.  When  the  second  Adam’s  de- 
scendants shall  have  collected  as  much  rubbish  of  their 
own,  it  will  be  time  enough  to  dig  into  our  ruins  and 


28 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


compare  the  literary  advancement  of  two  independent 
races. 

But  we  are  looking  forward  too  far.  It  seems  to  be 
the  vice  of  those  who  have  a long  past  behind  them. 
We  will  return  to  the  new  Adam  and  Eve,  who,  having 
no  reminiscences  save  dim  and  fleeting  visions  of  a 
preexistence,  are  content  to  live  and  be  happy  in  the 
present. 

The  day  is  near  its  close  when  these  pilgrims,  who 
derive  their  being  from  no  dead  progenitors,  reach  the 
cemetery  of  Mount  Auburn.  With  light  hearts  — - for 
earth  and  sky  now  gladden  each  other  with  beauty  — 
they  tread  along  the  winding  paths,  among  marble  pil- 
lars, mimic  temples,  urns,  obelisks,  and  sarcophagi, 
sometimes  pausing  to  contemplate  these  fantasies  of 
human  growth,  and  sometimes  to  admire  the  flowers 
wherewith  Nature  converts  decay  to  loveliness.  Can 
death,  in  the  midst  of  his  old  triumphs,  make  them  sen- 
sible that  they  have  taken  up  the  heavy  burden  of  mor- 
tality which  a whole  species  had  thrown  down  ? Dust 
kindred  to  their  own  has  never  lain  in  the  grave.  Will 
they  then  recognize,  and  so  soon,  that  Time  and  the 
elements  have  an  indefeasible  claim  upon  their  bodies  ? 
Not  improbably  they  may.  There  must  have  been 
shadows  enough,  even  amid  the  primal  sunshine  of 
their  existence,  to  suggest  the  thought  of  the  soul’s  in- 
congruity with  its  circumstances.  They  have  already 
learned  that  something  is  to  be  thrown  aside.  The 
idea  of  Death  is  in  them,  or  not  far  off.  But,  were  they 
to  choose  a symbol  for  him,  it  would  be  the  butterfly 
soaring  upward,  or  the  bright  angel  beckoning  them 


THE  NEW  ADAM  AND  EVE. 


29 


aloft,  or  the  child  asleep,  with  soft  dreams  visible 
through  her  transparent  purity. 

Such  a Child,  in  whitest  marble,  they  have  found 
among  the  monuments  of  Mount  Auburn. 

% “ Sweetest  Eve,”  observes  Adam,  while  hand  in 
hand  they  contemplate  this  beautiful  object,  u yonder 
sun  has  left  us,  and  the  whole  world  is  fading  from  our 
sight.  Let  us  sleep  as  this  lovely  little  figure  is  sleeping. 
Our  Father  only  knows  whether  what  outward  things 
we  have  possessed  to-day  are  to  be  snatched  from  us 
forever.  But  should  our  earthly  life  be  leaving  us  with 
the  departing  light,  we  need  not  doubt  that  another 
morn  will  find  us  somewhere  beneath  the  smile  of  God. 
I feel  that  he  has  imparted  the  boon  of  existence  never 
to  be  resumed.” 

“ And  no  matter  where  we  exist,”  replies  Eve,  44  for 
we  shall  always  be  together.” 


EGOTISM;*  OR,  THE  BOSOM  SERPENT. 


From  the  unpublished  “ Allegories  of  the  Heart.” 

44  Here  he  comes  ! ” shouted  the  boys  along  the 
street.  44  Here  comes  the  man  with  a snake  in  his 
bosom  ! ” 

This  outcry,  saluting  Herkimer’s  ears  as  he  was 
about  to  enter  the  iron  gate  of  the  Elliston  mansion, 
made  him  pause.  It  was  not  without  a shudder  that  he 
found  himself  on  the  point  of  meeting  his  former  ac- 
quaintance, whom  he  had  known  in  the  glory  of  youth, 
and  whom  now,  after  an  interval  of  five  years,  he  was 
to  find  the  victim  either  of  a diseased  fancy  or  a horri- 
ble physical  misfortune. 

44  A snake  in  his  bosom  ! ” repeated  the  young  sculp- 
tor to  himself.  44  It  must  be  he.  No  second  man  on 
earth  has  such  a bosom  friend.  And  now,  my  poor 
Rosina,  Heaven  grant  me  wisdom  to  discharge  my  er- 
rand aright ! Woman’s  faith  must  be  strong  indeed 
since  thine  has  not  yet  failed.” 

Thus  musing,  he  took  his  stand  at  the  entrance  of 
the  gate  and  waited  until  the  personage  so  singularly 
announced  should  make  his  appearance.  After  an 

* The  physical  fact,  to  which  it  is  here  attempted  to  give  a moral 
signification,  has  been  Known  to  ocour  in  more  than  one  instance. 

(30) 


EGOTISM  ; OR,  THE  BOSOM  SERPENT. 


31 


instant  or  two  he  beheld  the  figure  of  a lean  man,  of 
unwholesome  look,  with  glittering  eyes  and  long  black 
hair,  who  seemed  to  imitate  the  motion  of  a snake  ; for, 
instead  of  walking  straight  forward  with  open  front,  he 
undulated  along  the  pavement  in  a curved  line.  It  may 
be  too  fanciful  to  say  that  something,  either  in  his 
moral  or  material  aspect,  suggested  the  idea  that  a 
miracle  had  been  wrought  by  transforming  a serpent 
into  a man,  but  so  imperfectly  that  the  snaky  nature  was 
yet  hidden,  and  scarcely  hidden,  under  the  mere  out- 
ward guise  of  humanity.  Herkimer  remarked  that  his 
complexion  had  a greenish  tinge  over  its  sickly  white, 
reminding  him  of  a species  of  marble  out  of  which  he 
had  once  wrought  a head  of  Envy,  with  her  snaky 
locks. 

The  wretched  being  approached  the  gate,  but,  in- 
stead of  entering,  stopped  short  and  fixed  the  glitter  of 
his  eye  full  upon  the  compassionate  yet  steady  coun- 
tenance of  the  sculptor. 

“ It  gnaws  me  ! It  gnaws  me  ! ” he  exclaimed. 

And  then  there  was  an  audible  hiss,  but  whether  it 
came  from  the  apparent  lunatic’s  own  lips,  or  was  the 
real  hiss  of  a serpent,  might  admit  of  a discussion. 
At  all  events,  it  made  Herkimer  shudder  to  his  heart’s 
core. 

“ Do  you  know  me,  George  Herkimer  ? ” asked  the 
snake-possessed. 

Herkimer  did  know  him  ; but  it  demanded  all  the 
intimate  and  practical  acquaintance  with  the  human 
face,  acquired  by  modelling  actual  likenesses  in  clay,  to 
recognize  the  features  of  Roderick  Elliston  in  the  vis- 
age that  now  met  the  sculptor’s  gaze.  Yet  it  was  he. 


32 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


It  added  nothing  to  the  wonder  to  reflect  that  the  once 
brilliant  young  man  had  undergone  this  odious  and 
fearful  change  during  the  no  more  than  five  brief  years 
of  Herkimer’s  abode  at  Florence.  The  possibility  of 
such  a transformation  being  granted,  it  was  as  easy  to 
conceive  it  effected  in  a moment  as  in  an  age.  Inex- 
pressibly shocked  and  startled,  it  was  still  the  keenest 
pang  when  Herkimer  remembered  that  the  fate  of  his 
cousin  Rosina,  the  ideal  of  gentle  womanhood,  was 
indissolubly  interwoven  with  that  of  a being  whom 
Providence  seemed  to  have  unhumanized. 

“ Elliston ! Roderick ! ” cried  he,  “ I had  heard  of 
this  ; but  my  conception  came  far  short  of  the  truth. 
What  has  befallen  you  ? Why  do  I find  you  thus  ? ” 
“ O,  ’tis  a mere  nothing  ! A snake  ! A snake ! 
The  commonest  thing  in  the  world.  A snake  in  the 
bosom  — that’s  all,”  answered  Roderick  Elliston. 
“ But  how  is  your  own  breast  ? ” continued  he,  look- 
ing the  sculptor  in  the  eye  with  the  most  acute  and 
penetrating  glance  that  it  had  ever  been  his  fortune’ to 
encounter.  “ All  pure  and  wholesome  ? No  reptile 
there  ? By  my  faith  and  conscience,  and  by  the  devil 
within  me,  here  is  a wonder  ! A man  without  a ser- 
pent in  his  bosom  ! ” 

“ Be  calm,  Elliston,”  whispered  George  Herkimer, 
laying  his  hand  upon  the  shoulder  of  the  snake-pos- 
sessed. “ I have  crossed  the  ocean  to  meet  you.  Lis- 
ten ! Let  us  be  private.  I bring  a message  from 
Rosina  — from  your  wife  ! ” 

u It  gnaws  me  ! It  gnaws  me ! ” muttered  Rod- 
erick. 

With  this  exclamation,  the  most  frequent  in  his 


ECxOTISM  ; OR,  THE  BOSOM  SERPENT. 


33 


mouth,  the  unfortunate  man  clutched  both  hands  upon 
his  breast  as  if  an  intolerable  sting  or  torture  impelled 
him  to  rend  it  open  and  let  out  the  living  mischief,  even 
should  it  he  intertwined  with  his  own  life.  He  then 
freed  himself  from  Herkimer’s  grasp  by  a subtle  mo- 
tion, and,  gliding  through  the  gate,  took  refuge  in  his 
antiquated  family  residence.  The  sculptor  did  not 
pursue  him  He  saw  that  no  available  intercourse 
could  be  expected  at  such  a moment,  and  was  desirous, 
before  another  meeting,  to  inquire  closely  into  the  na- 
ture of  Roderick’s  disease  and  the  circumstances  that 
had  reduced  him  to  so  lamentable  a condition.  He 
succeeded  in  obtaining  the  necessary  information  from 
an  eminent  medical  gentleman. 

Shortly  after  Elliston’s  separation  from  his  wife  — 
now  nearly  four  years  ago  — his  associates  had  ob- 
served a singular  gloom  spreading  over  his  daily  life, 
like  those  chill,  gray  mists  that  sometimes  steal  away 
the  sunshine  from  a summer’s  morning.  The  symp- 
toms caused  them  endless  perplexity.  They  knew  not 
whether  ill  health  were  robbing  his  spirits  of  elasticity, 
or  whether  a canker  of  the  mind  was  gradually  eating, 
as  such  cankers  do,  from  his  moral  system  into  the 
physical  frame,  which  is  but  the  shadow  of  the  former. 
They  looked  for  the  root  of  this  trouble  in  his  shattered 
schemes  of  domestic  bliss,  — wilfully  shattered  by  him- 
self, — but  could  not  be  satisfied  of  its  existence 
there.  Some  thought  that  their  once  brilliant  friend 
was  in  an  incipient  stage  of  insanity,  of  which  his 
passionate  impulses  had  perhaps  been  the  forerunners ; 
others  prognosticated  a general  blight  and  gradual  de- 
cline. From  Roderick’s  own  lips  they  could  learn 
VOL.  II.  3 


34 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


nothing.  More  than  once,  it  is  true,  he  had  been  heard 
to  say,  clutching  his  hands  convulsively  upon  his  breast 
— “ It  gnaws  me  ! It  gnaws  me  ! ” — but,  by  different 
auditors,  a great  diversity  of  explanation  was  assigned 
to  this  ominous  expression.  What  could  it  be,  that 
gnawed  the  breast  of  Roderick  Elliston  ? Was  it  sor- 
row ? Was  it  merely  the  tooth  of  physical  disease  ? 
Or,  in  his  reckless  course,  often  verging  upon  profli- 
gacy, if  not  plunging  into  its  depths,  had  he  been  guilty 
of  some  deed,  which  made  his  bosom  a prey  to  the 
deadlier  fangs  of  remorse  ? There  was  plausible 
ground  for  each  of  these  conjectures  ; but  it  must  not 
be  concealed  that  more  than  one  elderly  gentleman,  the 
victim  of  good  cheer  and  slothful  habits,  magisterially 
pronounced  the  secret  of  the  whole  matter  to  be  Dys- 
pepsia ! 

Meanwhile,  Roderick  seemed  aware  how  generally 
he  had  become  the  subject  of  curiosity  and  conjecture, 
and,  with  a morbid  repugnance  to  such  notice,  or  to  any 
notice  whatsoever,  estranged  himself  from  all  compan- 
ionship. Not  merely  the  eye  of  man  was  a horror  to 
him ; not  merely  the  light  of  a friend’s  countenance  ; 
but  even  the  blessed  sunshine,  likewise,  which,  in  its 
universal  beneficence  typifies  the  radiance  of  the  Cre- 
ator’s face,  expressing  his  love  for  all  the  creatures  of 
his  hand.  The  dusky  twilight  was  now  too  transparent 
for  Roderick  Elliston ; the  blackest  midnight  was  his 
chosen  hour  to  steal  abroad  ; and  if  ever  he  were  seen, 
it  was  when  the  watchman’s  lantern  gleamed  upon  his 
figure,  gliding  along  the  street,  with  his  hands  clutched 
upon  his  bosom,  still  muttering,  “ It  gnaws  me  ! It 
gnaws  me  ! ” What  could  it  be  that  gnawed  him  ? 


EGOTISM  ; OR,  THE  BOSOM  SERPENT. 


35 


After  a time,  it  became  known  that  Elliston  was  in 
the  habit  of  resorting  to  all  the  noted  quacks  that  in- 
fested the  city,  or  whom  money  would  tempt  to  journey 
thither  from  a distance.  By  one  of  these  persons,  in 
the  exultation  of  a supposed  cure,  it  was  proclaimed 
far  and  wide,  by  dint  of  handbills  and  little  pamphlets 
on  dingy  paper,  that  a distinguished  gentleman,  Roder- 
ick Elliston,  Esq.,  had  been  relieved  of  a Snake  in  his 
stomach  ! So  here  was  the  monstrous  secret,  ejected 
from  its  lurking  place  into  public-  view,  in  all  its  horri- 
ble deformity.  The  mystery  was  out ; but  not  so  the 
bosom  serpent.  He,  if  it  were  any  thing  but  a delusion, 
still  lay  coiled  in  his  living  den.  The  empiric’s  cure 
had  been  a sham,  the  effect,  it  was  supposed,  of  some 
stupefying  drug,  which  more  nearly  caused  the  death 
of  the  patient  than  of  the  odious  reptile  that  possessed 
him.  When  Roderick  Elliston  regained  entire  sensi- 
bility, it  was  to  find  his  misfortune  the  town  talk  — the 
more  than  nine  days’ wonder  and  horror  — while,  at 
his  bosom,  he  felt  the  sickening  motion  of  a thing  alive, 
and  the  gnawing  of  that  restless  fang,  which  seemed 
to  gratify  at  once  a physical  appetite  and  a fiendish  spite. 

He  summoned  the  old  black  servant,  who  had  been 
bred  up  in  his  father’s  house,  and  was  a middle-aged 
man  while  Roderick  lay  in  his  cradle. 

u Scipio ! ” he  began  ; and  then  paused,  with  his 
arms  folded  over  his  heart.  u What  do  people  say  of 
me,  Scipio  ? ” 

“ Sir  ! my  poor  master ! that  you  had  a serpent  in 
your  bosom,”  answered  the  servant,  with  hesitation. 

“ And  what  else  ? ” asked  Roderick,  with  a ghastly 
look  at  the  man. 


36 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


“ Nothing  else,  dear  master,”  replied  Scipio  ; 6i  only 
that  the  doctor  gave  you  a powder,  and  that  the  snake 
leaped  out  upon  the  floor.” 

“ No,  no  ! ” muttered  Roderick  to  himself,  as  he 
shook  his  head,  and  pressed  his  hands  with  a more  con- 
vulsive force  upon  his  breast,  “ I feel  him  still.  It 
gnaws  me  ! It  gnaws  me  ! ” 

From  this  time  the  miserable  sufferer  ceased  to  shun 
the  world,  but  rather  solicited  and  forced  himself  upon 
the  notice  of  acquaintances  and  strangers.  It  was  part- 
ly the  result  of  desperation  on  finding  that  the  cavern 
of  his  own  bosom  had  not  proved  deep  and  dark  enough 
to  hide  the  secret,  even  while  it  was  so  secure  a fortress 
for  the  loathsome  fiend  that  had  crept  into  it.  But  still 
more,  this  craving  for  notoriety  was  a symptom  of  the 
intense  morbidness  which  now  pervaded  his  nature. 
All  persons,  chronically  diseased,  are  egotists,  whether 
the  disease  be  of  the  mind  or  body ; whether  it  be  sin, 
sorrow,  or  merely  the  more  tolerable  calamity  of  some 
endless  pain,  or  mischief  among  the  cords  of  mortal 
life.  Such  individuals  are  made  acutely  conscious  of 
a self,  by  the  torture  in  which  it  dwells.  Self,  there- 
fore, grows  to  be  so  prominent  an  object  with  them 
that  they  cannot  but  present  it  to  the  face  of  every  cas- 
ual passer  by.  There  is  a pleasure  — perhaps  the 
greatest  of  which  the  sufferer  is  susceptible  — in  dis- 
playing the  wasted  or  ulcerated  limb,  or  the  cancer  in 
the  breast ; and  the  fouler  the  crime,  with  so  much  the 
more  difficulty  does  the  perpetrator  prevent  it  from 
thrusting  up  its  snakelike  head  to  frighten  the  world  ; 
for  it  is  that  cancer,  or  that  crime,  which  constitutes 
their  respective  individuality.  Roderick  Elliston,  who, 


EGOTISM  ; OR,  THE  BOSOM  SERPENT. 


31 


a little  while  before,  had  held  himself  so  scornfully 
above  the  common  lot  of  men,  now  paid  full  allegiance 
to  this  humiliating  law.  The  snake  in  his  bosom  seemed 
the  symbol  of  a monstrous  egotism  to  which  every  thing 
was  referred,  and  which  he  pampered,  night  and  day, 
with  a continual  and  exclusive  sacrifice  of  devil  worship. 

He  soon  exhibited  what  most  people  considered  indu- 
bitable tokens  of  insanity.  In  some  of  his  moods, 
strange  to  say,  he  prided  and  gloried  himself  on  being 
marked  out  from  the  ordinary  experience  of  mankind, 
by  the  possession  of  a double  nature,  and  a life  within 
a life.  He  appeared  to  imagine  that  the  snake  was  a 
divinity  — not  celestial,  it  is  true,  but  darkly  infernal  — 
and  that  he  thence  derived  an  eminence  and  a sanctity, 
horrid,  indeed,  yet  more  desirable  than  whatever  ambi- 
tion aims  at.  Thus  he  drew  his  misery  around  him 
like  a regal  mantle,  and  looked  down  triumphantly  upon 
those  whose  vitals  nourished  no  deadly  monster.  Oft- 
ener,  however,  his  human  nature  asserted  its  empire 
over  him  in  the  shape  of  a yearning  for  fellowship. 
It  grew  to  be  his  custom  to  spend  the  whole  day  in  wan- 
dering about  the  streets,  aimlessly,  unless  it  might  be 
called  an  aim  to  establish  a species  of  brotherhood  be- 
tween himself  and  the  world.  With  cankered  ingenu- 
ity, he  sought  out  his  own  disease  in  every  breast. 
Whether  insane  or  not,  he  showed  so  keen  a perception 
of  frailty,  error,  and  vice,  that  many  persons  gave  him 
credit  for  being  possessed  not  merely  with  a serpent 
but  with  an  actual  fiend,  who  imparted  this  evil  faculty 
of  recognizing  whatever  was  ugliest  in  man’s  heart. 

For  instance,  he  met  an  individual,  who,  for  thirty 
years,  had  cherished  a hatred  against  his  own  brother. 


38  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

Roderick,  amidst  the  throng  of  the  street,  laid  his  hand 
on  this  man’s  chest,  and  looking  full  into  his  forbid- 
ding face,  — 

44  How  is  the  snake  to-day  ? ” he  inquired,  with  a 
mock  expression  of  sympathy. 

44  The  snake  ! ” exclaimed  the  brother  hater  — • 
44  what  do  you  mean  ? ” 

44  The  snake  ! The  snake  ! Does  he  gnaw  you  ? ” 
persisted  Roderick.  44  Did  you  take  counsel  with  him 
this  morning,  when  you  should  have  been  saying  your 
prayers  ? Did  he  sting,  when  you  thought  of  your 
brother’s  health,  wealth,  and  good  repute  ? Did  he 
caper  for  joy,  when  you  remembered  the  profligacy  of 
his  only  son  ? And  whether  he  stung,  or  whether  he 
frolicked,  did  you  feel  his  poison  throughout  your  body 
and  soul,  converting  every  thing  to  sourness  and  bitter- 
ness ? That  -is  the  way  of  such  serpents.  I have 
learned  the  whole  nature  #f  them  from  my  own  ! ” 

44  Where  is  the  police  ? ” roared  the  object  of  Rod- 
erick’s persecution,  at  the  same  time  giving  an  instinc- 
tive clutch  to  his  breast.  44  Why  is  this  lunatic  allowed 
to  go  at  large  ? ” 

44  Ha,  ha  ! ” chuckled  Roderick,  releasing  his  grasp 
of  the  man.  44  His  bosom  serpent  has  stung  him,  then  ! ” 

Often  it  pleased  the  unfortunate  young  man  to  vex 
people  with  a lighter  satire,  yet  still  characterized  by 
somewhat  of  snakelike  virulence.  One  day  he  en- 
countered an  ambitious  statesman,  and  gravely  inquired 
after  the  welfare  of  his  boa  constrictor ; for  of  that 
species,  Roderick  affirmed,  this  gentleman’s  serpent 
must  needs  be,  since  its  appetite  was  enormous  enough 
to  devour  the  whole  country  and  constitution.  At  anoth- 


EGOTISM  ; OR,  THE  BOSOM  SERPENT. 


39 


er  time,  he  stopped  a close-fisted  old  fellow,  of  great 
wealth,  but  who  skulked  about  the  city  in  the  guise  of 
a scarecrow,  with  a patched  blue  surtout,  brown  hat, 
and  mouldy  boots,  scraping  pence  together,  and  picking 
up  rusty  nails.  Pretending  to  look  earnestly  at  this  re- 
spectable person’s  stomach,  Roderick  assured  him  that 
his  snake  was  a copper-head,  and  had  been  generated 
by  the  immense  quantities  of  that  base  metal,  with 
which  he  daily  defiled  his  fingers.  Again,  he  assaulted 
a man  of  rubicund  visage,  and  told  him  that  few  bosom 
serpents  had  more  of  the  devil  in  them  than  those  that 
breed  in  the  vats  of  a distillery.  The  next  whom  Rod- 
erick honored  with  his  attention  was  a distinguished 
clergyman,  who  happened  just  then  to  be  engaged  in  a 
theological  controversy,  where  human  wrath  was  more 
perceptible  than  divine  inspiration. 

“ You  have  swallowed  a snake  in  a cup  of  sacra- 
mental wine,”  quoth  he. 

“ Profane  wretch  ! ” exclaimed  the  divine  ; but,  nev- 
ertheless, his  hand  stole  to  his  breast. 

He  met  a person  of  sickly  sensibility,  who,  on  some 
early  disappointment,  had  retired  from  the  world,  and 
thereafter  held  no  intercourse  with  his  fellow-men,  but 
brooded  sullenly  or  passionately  over  the  irrevocable 
past.  This  man’s  very  heart,  if  Roderick  might  be  be- 
lieved, had  been  changed  into  a serpent,  which  would 
finally  torment  both  him  and  itself  to  death.  Observ- 
ing a married  couple,  whose  domestic  troubles  were 
matter  of  notoriety,  he  condoled  with  both  on  having 
mutually  taken  a house  adder  to  their  bosoms.  To  an 
envious  author,  who  depreciated  works  which  he  could 
never  equal,  he  said  that  his  snake  was  the  slimiest  and 


40 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


filthiest  of  all  the  reptile  tribe,  but  was  fortunately  with- 
out a sting.  A man  of  impure  life,  and  a brazen  face, 
asking  Roderick  if  there  were  any  serpent  in  his  breast, 
he  told  him  that  there  was,  and  of  the  same  species 
that  once  tortured  Don  Rodrigo,  the  Goth.  He  took  a 
fair  young  girl  by  the  hand,  and  gazing  sadly  into  her 
eyes,  warned  her  that  she  cherished  a serpent  of  the 
deadliest  kind  within  her  gentle  breast ; and  the  world 
found  the  truth  of  those  ominous  words,  when,  a few 
months  afterwards,  the  poor  girl  died  of  love  and  shame. 
Two  ladies,  rivals  in  fashionable  life,  who  tormented 
one  another  with  a thousand  little  stings  of  womanish 
spite,  were  given  to  understand  that  each  of  their 
hearts  was  a nest  of  diminutive  snakes,  which  did  quite 
as  much  mischief  as  one  great  one. 

But  nothing  seemed  to  please  Roderick  better  than  to 
lay  hold  of  a person  infected  with  jealousy,  which  he 
represented  as  an  enormous  green  reptile,  with  an  ice- 
cold  length  of  body,  and  the  sharpest  sting  of  any  snake 
save  one. 

“ And  what  one  is  that  ? ” asked  a bystander,  over- 
hearing him. 

It  was  a dark-browed  man,  who  put  the  question  ; he 
had  an  evasive  eye,  which,  in  the  course  of  a dozen 
years,  had  looked  no  mortal  directly  in  the  face.  There 
was  an  ambiguity  about  this  person’s  character  — a 
stain  upon  his  reputation  — yet  none  could  tell  precise- 
ly of  what  nature,  although  the  city  gossips,  male  and 
female,  whispered  the  most  atrocious  surmises.  Until 
a recent  period  he  had  followed  the  sea,  and  was,  in 
fact,  the  very  shipmaster  whom  George  Herkimer  had 
encountered,  under  such  singular  circumstances,  in  the 
Grecian  Archipelago. 


EGOTISM  ; OR,  THE  BOSOM  SERPENT. 


41 


“ What  bosom  serpent  has  the  sharpest  sting  ? * 
repeated  this  man ; but  he  put  the  question  as  if  by  a 
reluctant  necessity,  and  grew  pale  while  he  was  utter- 
ing it. 

“ Why  need  you  ask  ? ” replied  Roderick,  with  a 
look  of  dark  intelligence.  u Look  into  your  own  breast. 
Hark  ! my  serpent  bestirs  himself!  He  acknowledges 
the  presence  of  a master  fiend  ! ” 

And  then,  as  the  bystanders  afterwards  affirmed,  a 
hissing  sound  was  heard,  apparently  in  Roderick  Ellis- 
ton’s  breast.  It  was  said,  too,  that  an  answering  hiss 
cameYrom  the  vitals  of  the  shipmaster,  as  if  a snake 
were  actually  lurking  there  and  had  been  aroused  by 
the  call  of  its  brother  reptile.  If  there  were  in  fact 
any  such  sound,  it  might  have  been  caused  by  a mali- 
cious exercise  of  ventriloquism  on  the  part  of  Roderick. 

Thus,  making  his  own  actual  serpent  — if  a serpent 
there  actually  was  in  his  bosom  — the  type  of  each 
man’s  fatal  error,  or  hoarded  sin,  or  unquiet  conscience, 
and  striking  his  sting  so  unremorsefully  into  the  sorest 
spot,  we  may  well  imagine  that  Roderick  became  the 
pest  of  the  city.  Nobody  could  elude  him  — none 
could  withstand  him.  He  grappled  with  the  ugliest 
truth  that  he  could  lay  his  hand  on,  and  compelled  his 
adversary  to  do  the  same.  Strange  spectacle  in  hu- 
man life  where  it  is  the  instinctive  effort  of  one  and  all 
to  hide  those  sad  realities,  and  leave  them  undisturbed 
beneath  a heap  of  superficial  topics,  which  constitute 
the  materials  of  intercourse  between  man  and  man  ! 
It  was  not  to  be  tolerated  that  Roderick  Elliston  should 
break  through  the  tacit  compact  by  which  the  world" 
has  done  its  best  to  secure  repose  without  relinquishing 


42 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE 


evil.  The  victims  of  his  malicious  remarks,  it  is  true, 
had  brothers  enough  to  keep  them  in  countenance  ; for, 
by  Roderick’s  theory,  every  mortal  bosom  harbored 
either  a brood  of  small  serpents  or  one  overgrown 
monster  that  had  devoured  all  the  rest.  Still  the  city 
could  not  bear  this  new  apostle.  It  was  demanded  by 
nearly  all,  and  particularly  by  the  most  respectable  in- 
habitants, that  Roderick  should  no  longer  be  permitted 
to  violate  the  received  rules  of  decorum  by  obtruding 
his  own  bosom  serpent  to  the  public  gaze,  and  dragging 
those  of  decent  people  from  their  lurking  places. 

Accordingly,  his  relatives  interfered  and  place'd  him 
in  a private  asylum  for  the  insane.  When  the  news 
was  noised  abroad,  it  was  observed  that  many  persons 
walked  the  streets  with  freer  countenances  and  covered 
their  breasts  less  carefully  with  their  hands. 

His  confinement,  however,  although  it  contributed 
not  a little  to  the  peace  of  the  town,  operated  unfa- 
vorably upon  Roderick  himself.  In  solitude  his  mel- 
ancholy grew  more  black  and  sullen.  He  spent  whole 
days  — indeed,  it  was  his  sole  occupation  — in  com- 
muning with  the  serpent.  A conversation  was  sus- 
tained, in  which,  as  it  seemed,  the  hidden  monster  bore 
a part,  though  unintelligibly  to  the  listeners,  and  inaudi- 
ble except  in  a hiss.  Singular  as  it  may  appear,  the 
sufferer  had  now  contracted  a sort  of  affection  for  his 
tormentor,  mingled,  however,  with  the  intensest  loath- 
ing and  horror.  Nor  were  such  discordant  emotions 
incompatible.  Each,  on  the  contrary,  imparted  strength 
and  poignancy  to  its  opposite.  Horrible  love  — horri- 
ble antipathy  — embracing  one  another  in  his  bosom, 
and  both  concentrating  themselves  upon  a being  that 


EGOTISM  ; OR,  THE  BOSOM  SERPENT. 


43 


had  crept  into  his  vitals  or  been  engendered  there  and 
which  was  nourished  with  his  food,  and  lived  upon  his 
life,  and  was  as  intimate  with  him  as  his  own  heart, 
and  yet  was  the  foulest  of  all  created  things  ! But  not 
the  less  was  it  the  true  type  of  a morbid  nature. 

Sometimes,  in  his  moments  of  rage  and  bitter  hatred 
against  the  snake  and  himself,  Roderick  determined  to 
be  the  death  of  him,  even  at  the  expense  of  his  own 
life.  Once  he  attempted  it  by  starvation  ; but,  while 
the  wretched  man  was  on  the  point  of  famishing,  the 
monster  seemed  to  feed  upon  his  heart,  and  to  thrive 
and  wax  gamesome,  as  if  it  were  his  sweetest  and  most 
congenial  diet.  Then  he  privily  took  a dose  of  active 
poison,  imagining  that  it  would  not  fail  to  kill  either 
himself  or  the  devil  that  possessed  him,  or  both  to- 
gether. Another  mistake  ; for  if  Roderick  had  not 
yet  been  destroyed  by  his  own  poisoned  heart,  nor  the 
snake  by’  gnawing  it,  they  had  little  to  fear  from 
arsenic  or  corrosive  sublimate.  Indeed,  the  venomous 
pest  appeared  to  operate  as  an  antidote  against  all 
other  poisons.  The  physicians  tried  to  suffocate  the 
fiend  with  tobacco  smoke.  He  breathed  it  as  freely  as 
if  it  were  his  native  atmosphere.  Again,  they  drugged 
their  patient  with  opium  and  drenched  him  with  intox- 
icating liquors,  hoping  that  the  snake  might  thus  be 
reduced  to  stupor  and  perhaps  be  ejected  from  the 
stomach.  They  succeeded  in  rendering  Roderick  in- 
sensible ; but,  placing  their  hands  upon  his  breast,  they 
were  inexpressibly  horror  stricken  to  feel  the  monster 
wriggling,  twining,  and  darting  to  and  fro  within  his 
narrow  limits,  evidently  enlivened  by  the  opium  or 
alcohol,  and  incited  to  unusual  feats  of  activity.  Thence- 


44 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


forth  they  gave  up  all  attempts  at  cure  or  palliation. 
The  doomed  sufferer  submitted  to  his  fate,  resumed  his 
former  loathsome  affection  for  the  bosom  fiend,  and 
spent  whole  miserable  days  before  a looking  glass, 
with  his  mouth  wide  open,  watching,  in  hope  and  hor- 
ror, to  catch  a glimpse  of  the  snake’s  head  far  down 
within  his  throat.  It  is  supposed  that  he  succeeded ; 
for  the  attendants  once  heard  a frenzied  shcut,  and, 
rushing  into  the  room,  found  Roderick  lifeless  upon 
the  floor. 

He  was  kept  but  little  longer  under  restraint.  After 
minute  investigation,  the  medical  directors  of  the  asy- 
lum decided  that  his  mental  disease  did  not  amount  to 
insanity  nor  would  warrant  his  confinement,  especially 
as  its  influence  upon  his  spirits  was  unfavorable,  and 
might  produce  the  evil  which  it  was  meant  to  remedy. 
His  eccentricities  were  doubtless  great ; he  had  habit- 
ually violated  many  of  the  customs  and  prejudices  of 
society  ; but  the  world  was  not,  without  surer  ground, 
entitled  to  treat  him  as  a madman.  On  this  decision 
of  such  competent  authority  Roderick  was  released, 
and  had  returned  to  his  native  city  the  very  day  before 
his  encounter  with  George  Herkimer. 

As  soon  as  possible  after  learning  these  particulars 
the  sculptor,  together  with  a sad  and  tremulous  com- 
panion, sought  Elliston  at  his  own  house.  It  was  a 
large,  sombre  edifice  of  wood,  with  pilasters  and  a 
balcony,  and  was  divided  from  one  of  the  principal 
streets  by  a terrace  of  three  elevations,  which  was 
ascended  by  successive  flights  of  stone  steps.  Some 
immense  old  elms  almost  concealed  the  front  of  the 
mansion.  This  spacious  and  once  magnificent  family 


EGOTISM  ; OR,  THE  BOSOM  SERPENT. 


45 


residence  was  built  by  a grandee  of  the  race  early  in 
the  past  century,  at  which  epoch,  land  being  of  small 
comparative  value,  the  garden  and  other  grounds  had 
formed  quite  an  extensive  domain.  Although  a por- 
tion of  the  ancestral  heritage  had  been  alienated,  there 
was  still  a shadowy  enclosure  in  the  rear  of  the  man- 
sion where  a student,  or  a dreamer,  or  a man  of 
stricken  heart  might  lie  all  day  upon  the  grass,  amid 
the  solitude  of  murmuring  boughs,  and  forget  that  a 
city  had  grown  up  around  him. 

Into  this  retirement  the  sculptor  and  his  companion 
were  ushered  by  Scipio,  the  old  black  servant,  whose 
wrinkled  visage  grew  almost  sunny  with  intelligence 
and  joy  as  he  paid  his  humble  greetings  to  one  of  the 
two  visitors. 

u Remain  in  the  arbor,”  whispered  the  sculptor  to 
the  figure  that  leaned  upon  his  arm.  “ You  will  know 
whether,  and  when,  to  make  your  appearance.” 

“ God  will  teach  me,”  was  the  reply.  “ May  he 
support  me  too  ! ” 

Roderick  was  reclining  on  the  margin  of  a fountain, 
which  gushed  into  the  fleckered  sunshine  with  the  same 
clear  sparkle  and  the  same  voice  of  airy  quietude  as 
when  trees  of  primeval  growth  flung  their  shadows 
across  its  bosom.  How  strange  is  the  life  of  a foun- 
tain ! — born  at  every  moment,  yet  of  an  age  coeval 
with  the  rocks,  and  far  surpassing  the  venerable  anti- 
quity of  a forest. 

u You  are  come  ! I have  expected  you,”  said  Ellis- 
ton,  when  he  became  aware  of  the  sculptor’s  presence. 

His  manner  was  very  different  from  that  of  the 
preceding  day  — quiet,  courteous,  and,  as  Herkimer 


46 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


thought,  watchful  both  over  his  guest  and  hiniself. 
This  unnatural  restraint  was  almost  the  only  trait  that 
betokened  any  thing  amiss.  He  had  just  thrown  a 
book  upon  the  grass,  where  it  lay  half  opened,  thus 
disclosing  itself  to  be  a natural  history  of  the  serpent 
tribe,  illustrated  by  lifelike  plates.  Near  it  lay  that 
bulky  volume,  the  Ductor  Dubitantium  of  Jeremy  Tay- 
lor, full  of  cases  of  conscience,  and  in  which  most 
men,  possessed  of  a conscience,  may  find  something 
applicable  to  their  purpose. 

u You  see,”  observed  Elliston,  pointing  to  the  book 
of  serpents,  while  a smile  gleamed  upon  his  lips,  “ I 
am  making  an  effort  to  become  better  acquainted  with 
my  bosom  friend  ; but  I find  nothing  satisfactory  in 
this  volume.  If  I mistake  not,  he  will  prove  to  be  sui 
generis , and  akin  to  no  other  reptile  in  creation.” 

“ Whence  came  this  strange  calamity  ? ” inquired 
the  sculptor. 

“ My  sable  friend  Scipio  has  a story,”  replied  Rod- 
erick, “ of  a snake  that  had  lurked  in  this  fountain  — 
pure  and  innocent  as  it  looks  — ever  since  it  was 
known  to  the  first  settlers.  This  insinuating  personage 
once  crept  into  the  vitals  of  my  great  grandfather  and 
dwelt  there  many  years,  tormenting  the  old  gentleman 
beyond  mortal  endurance.  In  short,  it  is  a family  pe- 
culiarity. But,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I have  no  faith  in 
this  idea  of  the  snake’s  being  an  heirloom.  He  is  my 
own  snake,  and  no  man’s  else.” 

“ But  what  was  his  origin  ? ” demanded  Herkimer. 
u O,  there  is  poisonous  stuff  in  any  man’s  heart  suf- 
ficient to  generate  a brood  of  serpents,”  said  Elliston. 
with  a hollow  laugh.  “You  should  have  heard  my 


EGOTISM  ; OR,  THE  BOSOM  SERPENT. 


47 


homilies  to  the  good  town’s  people.  Positively,  I deem 
myself  fortunate  in  having  bred  but  a single  serpent. 
You,  however,  have  none  in  your  bosom,  and  therefore 
cannot  sympathize  with  the  rest  of  the  world.  It  gnaws 
me  ! It  gnaws  me  ! ” 

With  this  exclamation,  Roderick  lost  his  self-control 
and  threw  himself  upon  the  grass,  testifying  his  agony 
by  intricate  writhings,  in  which  Herkimer  could  not 
but  fancy  a resemblance  to  the  motions  of  a snake. 
Then,  likewise,  was  heard  that  frightful  hiss,  which  often 
ran  through  the  sufferer’s  speech,  and  crept  between 
the  words  and  syllables  without  interrupting  their  suc- 
cession. 

“ This  is  awful  indeed  ! ” exclaimed  the  sculptor  — 
M an  awful  infliction,  whether  it  be  actual  or  imaginary. 
Tell  me,  Roderick  Elliston,  is  there  any  remedy  for 
this  loathsome  evil  ? ” 

“ Yes,  but  an  impossible  one,”  muttered  Roderick, 
as  he  lay  wallowing  with  his  face  in  the  grass.  “ Could 
I for  one  instant  forget  myself,  the  serpent  might  not 
abide  within  me.  It  is  my  diseased  self-contempla- 
tion that  has  engendered  and  nourished  him.” 

u Then  forget  yourself,  my  husband,”  said  a gentle 
voice  above  him  ; u forget  yourself  in  the  idea  of 
another ! ” 

Rosina  had  emerged  from  the  arbor,  and  was  bend- 
ing over  him  with  the  shadow  of  his  anguish  reflected 
in  her  countenance,  yet  so  mingled  with  hope  and  un- 
selfish love  that  all  anguish  seemed  but  an  earthly 
shadow  and  a dream.  She  touched  Roderick  with 
her  hand.  A tremor  shivered  through  his  frame.  At 
that  moment,  if  report  be  trustworthy,  the  sculptor 


48 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


beheld  a waving  motion  through  the  grass,  and  heard 
a tinkling  sound,  as  if  something  had  plunged  into  the 
fountain.  Be  the  truth  as  it  might,  it  is  certain  that 
Roderick  Elliston  sat  up  like  a man  renewed,  restored 
to  his  right  mind,  and  rescued  from  the  fiend  which 
nad  so  miserably  overcome  him  in  the  battle  field  of 
his  own  breast. 

“ Rosina ! ” cried  he,  in  broken  and  passionate  tones, 
but  with  nothing  of  the  wild  wail  that  had  haunted  his 
voice  so  long,  “ forgive  ! forgive  ! ” 

Her  happy  tears  bedewed  his  face. 

“ The  punishment  has  been  severe,”  observed  the 
sculptor.  u Even  Justice  might  now  forgive ; how 
much  more  a woman’s  tenderness  ! Roderick  Elliston, 
whether  the  serpent  was  a physical  reptile,  or  whether 
the  morbidness  of  your  nature  suggested  that  symbol 
to  your  fancy,  the  moral  of  the  story  is  not  the  less  true 
and  strong.  A tremendous  Egotism,  manifesting  itself 
in  your  case  in  the  form  of  jealousy,  is  as  fearful  a 
fiend  as  ever  stole  into  the  human  heart.  Can  a breast, 
where  it  has  dwelt  so  long,  be  purified  ? ” 

“ O yes,”  said  Rosina,  with  a heavenly  smile.  “ The 
serpent  was  but  a dark  fantasy,  and  what  it  typified  was 
as  shadowy  as  itself.  The  past,  dismal  as  it  seems, 
shall  fling  no  gloom  upon  the  future.  To  give  it  its 
due  importance  we  must  think  of  it  but  as  an  anecdote 
in  our  Eternity.” 


THE  CHRISTMAS  BANQUET. 


From  the  unpublished  “Allegories  of  the  Heart.” 

“ I have  here  attempted,”  said  Roderick,  unfolding 
a few  sheets  of  manuscript,  as  he  sat  with  Rosina  and 
the  sculptor  in  the  summer  house,  — “I  have  attempted 
to  seize  hold  of  a personage  who  glides  past  me,  occa- 
sionally, in  my  walk  through  life.  My  former  sad 
experience,  as  you  know,  has  gifted  me  with  some  de- 
gree of  insight  into  the  gloomy  mysteries  of  the  human 
heart,  through  which  I have  wandered  like  one  astray 
in  a dark  cavern,  with  his  torch  fast  flickering  to  ex- 
tinction. But  this  man,  this  class  of  men,  is  a hopeless 
puzzle.” 

w Well,  but  propound  him,”  said  the  sculptor.  “ Let 
us  have  an  idea  of  him,  to  begin  with.” 

u Why,  indeed,”  replied  Roderick,  “ he  is  such  a 
being  as  I could  conceive  you  to  carve  out  of  marble, 
and  some  yet  unrealized  perfection  of  human  science 
to  endow  with  an  exquisite  mockery  of  intellect ; but 
still  there  lacks  the  last  inestimable  touch  of  a divine 
Creator.  He  looks  like  a man  ; and,  perchance,  like  a 
better  specimen  of  man  than  you  ordinarily  meet.  You 
might  esteem  him  wise ; he  is  capable  of  cultivation 
and  refinement,  and  has  at  least  an  external  conscience ; 

4 m 


VOL.  II. 


50 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


but  the  demands  that  spirit  makes  Upon  spirit  are  pre- 
cisely those  to  which  he  cannot  respond.  When  at 
last  you  come  close  to  him  you  find  him  chill  and 
unsubstantial  — a mere  vapor.” 

“I  believe,”  said  Rosina,  u I have  a glimmering  idea 
of  what  you  mean.” 

w Then  be  thankful,”  answered  her  husband,  smiling ; 
w but  do  not  anticipate  any  further  illumination  from 
what  I am  about  to  read.  I have  here  imagined  such 
a man  to  be- — what,  probably,  he  never  is  — conscious 
of  the  deficiency  in  his  spiritual  organization.  Me- 
thinks  the  result  would  be  a sense  of  cold  unreality 
wherewith  he  would  go  shivering  through  the  world, 
longing  to  exchange  his  load  of  ice  for  any  burden 
of  real  grief  that  fate  could  fling  upon  a human  being.” 

Contenting  himself  with  this  preface,  Roderick  be- 
gan to  read. 

In  a certain  old  gentleman’s  last  will  and  testament 
there  appeared  a bequest,  which,  as  his  final  thought 
and  deed,  was  singularly  in  keeping  with  a long  life  of 
melancholy  eccentricity.  He  devised  a considerable 
sum  for  establishing  a fund,  the  interest  of  which  was 
to  be  expended,  annually  forever,  in  preparing  a Christ- 
mas Banquet  for  ten  of  the  most  miserable  persons  that 
could  be  found.  It  seemed  not  to  be  the  testator’s  pur- 
pose to  make  these  half  a score  of  sad  hearts  merry, 
but  to  provide  that  the  stern  or  fierce  expression  of 
human  discontent  should  not  be  drowned,  even  for  that 
one  holy  and  joyful  day,  amid  the  acclamations  of  fes- 
tal gratitude  which  all  Christendom  sends  up.  And  he 
desired,  likewise,  to  perpetuate  his  own  remonstrance 


THE  CHRISTMAS  BANQUET. 


51 


against  the  earthly  course  of  Providence,  and  his  sad 
and  sour  dissent  from  those  systems  of  religion  or  phi- 
losophy which  either  find  sunshine  in  the  world  or  draw 
it  down  from  heaven. 

The  task  of  inviting  the  guests,  or  of  selecting 
among  such  as  might  advance  their  claims  to  partake 
of  this  dismal  hospitality,  was  confided  to  the  two 
trustees  or  stewards  of  the  fund.  These  gentlemen, 
like  their  deceased  friend,  were  sombre  humorists,  who 
made  it  their  principal  occupation  to  number  the  sable 
threads  in  the  web  of  human  life,  and  drop  all  the 
golden  ones  out  of  the  reckoning.  They  performed 
their  present  office  with  integrity  and  judgment.  The 
aspect  of  the  assembled  company,  on  the  day  of  the 
first  festival,  might  not,  it  is  true,  have  satisfied  every 
beholder  that  these  were  especially  the  individuals, 
chosen  forth  from  all  the  world,  whose  griefs  were 
worthy  to  stand  as  indicators  of  the  mass  of  human 
suffering.  Yet,  after  due  consideration,  it  could  not 
be  disputed  that  here  was  a variety  of  hopeless  discom- 
fort, which,  if  it  sometimes  arose  from  causes  apparent- 
ly inadequate,  was  thereby  only  the  shrewder  imputation 
against  the  nature  and  mechanism  of  life. 

The  arrangements  and  decorations  of  the  banquet 
were  probably  intended  to  signify  that  death  in  life  which 
had  been  the  testator’s  definition  of  existence.  The  hall, 
illuminated  by  torches,  was  hung  round  with  curtains 
of  deep  and  dusky  purple,  and  adorned  with  branches  of 
cypress  and  wreaths  of  artificial  flowers,  imitative  of 
such  as  used  to  be  strown  over  the  dead.  A sprig  of 
parsley  was  laid  by  every  plate.  The  main  reservoir 
of  wine  was  a sepulchral  urn  of  silver,  whence  the 


52 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


liquor  was  distributed  around  the  table  in  small  vases, 
accurately  copied  from  those  that  held  the  tears  of  an- 
cient mourners.  Neither  had  the  stewards  * — if  it  were 
their  taste  that  arranged  these  details  — forgotten  the 
fantasy  of  the  old  Egyptians,  who  seated  a skeleton  at 
every  festive  board,  and  mocked  their  own  merriment 
with  the  imperturbable  grin  of  a death’s  head.  Such  a 
fearful  guest,  shrouded  in  a black  mantle,  sat  now  at 
the  head  of  the  table.  It  was  whispered,  I know  not 
with  what  truth,  that  the  testator  himself  had  once 
walked  the  visible  world  with  the  machinery  of  that 
same  skeleton,  and  that  it  was  one  of  the  stipulations 
of  his  will,  that  he  should  thus  be  permitted  to  sit,  from 
year  to  year,  at  the  banquet  which  he  had  instituted. 
If  so,  it  was  perhaps  covertly  implied  that  he  had  cher- 
ished no  hopes  of  bliss  beyond  the  grave  to  compensate 
for  the  evils  which  he  felt  or  imagined  here.  And  if,  in 
their  bewildered  conjectures  as  to  the  purpose  of  earth- 
ly existence,  the  banqueters  should  throw  aside  the  veil, 
and  cast  an  inquiring  glance  at  this  figure  of  death,  as 
seeking  thence  the  solution  otherwise  unattainable,  the 
only  reply  would  be  a stare  of  the  vacant  eye  cav- 
erns and  a grin  of  the  skeleton  jaws.  Such  was  the  re- 
sponse that  the  dead  man  had  fancied  himself  to  receive 
when  he  asked  of  Death  to  solve  the  riddle  of  his  life  ; 
and  it  was  his  desire  to  repeat  it  when  the  guests  of  his 
dismal  hospitality  should  find  themselves  perplexed 
with  the  same  question. 

“ What  means  that  wreath  ? ” asked  several  of  the 
company,  while  viewing  the  decorations  of  the  table. 

They  alluded  to  a wreath  of  cypress,  which  was 
held  on  high  by  a skeleton  arm,  protruding  from  with- 
in the  black  mantle. 


THE  CHRISTMAS  BANQUET. 


53 


•*  It  is  a crown,”  said  one  of  the  stewards,  “ not  for 
the  worthiest,  but  for  the  wofulest,  when  he  shall  prove 
his  claim  to  it.” 

The  guest  earliest  bidden  to  the  festival  was  a man 
of  soft  and  gentle  character,  who  had  not  energy  to 
struggle  against  the  heavy  despondency  to  which  his 
temperament  rendered  him  liable  ; and  therefore  with 
nothing  outwardly  to  excuse  him  from  happiness,  he 
had  spent  a life  of  quiet  misery  that  made  his  blood 
torpid,  and  weighed  upon  his  breath,  and  sat  like  a 
ponderous  night  fiend  upon  every  throb  of  his  unresist- 
ing heart.  His  wretchedness  seemed  as  deep  as  his 
original  nature,  if  not  identical  with  it.  It  was  the 
misfortune  of  a second  guest  to  cherish  within  his 
bosom  a diseased  heart,  which  had  become  so  wretch- 
edly sore  that  the  continual  and  unavoidable  rubs  of 
the  world,  the  blow  of  an  enemy,  the  careless  jostle  of 
a stranger,  and  even  the  faithful  and  loving  touch  of  a 
friend,  alike  made  ulcers  in  it.  As  is  the  habit  of  peo- 
ple thus  afilicted,  he  found  his  chief  employment  in 
exhibiting  these  miserable  sores  to  any- who  would  give 
themselves  the  pain  of  viewing  them.  A third  guest 
was  a hypochondriac,  whose  imagination  wrought  nec- 
romancy in  his  outward  and  inward  world,  and  caused 
him  to  see  monstrous  faces  in  the  household  fire,  and 
dragons  in  the  clouds  of  sunset,  and  fiends  in  the  guise 
of  beautiful  women,  and  something  ugly  or  wicked 
beneath  all  the  pleasant  surfaces  of  nature.  His  neigh- 
bor at  table  was  one  who,  in  his  early  youth,  had  trust- 
ed mankind  too  much,  and  hoped  too  highly  in  their 
behalf,  and,  in  meeting  with  many  disappointments, 
had  become  desperately  soured.  For  several  years 


54 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


back  this  misanthrope  had  employed  himself  in  accu- 
mulating motives  for  hating  and  despising  his  race  — • 
such  as  murder,  lust,  treachery,  ingratitude,  faithless- 
ness of  trusted  friends,  instinctive  vices  of  children* 
impurity  of  women,  hidden  guilt  in  men  of  saintlike 
aspect — and,  in  short,  all  manner  of  black  realities 
that  sought  to  decorate  themselves  with  outward  grace 
or  glory.  But  at  every  atrocious  fact  that  was  added 
to  his  catalogue,  at  every  increase  of  the  sad  knowledge 
which  he  spent  his  life  to  collect,  the  native  impulses 
of  the  poor  man’s  loving  and  confiding  heart  made  him 
groan  with  anguish.  Next,  with  his  heavy  brow  bent 
downward,  there  stole  into  the  hall  a man  naturally 
earnest  and  impassioned,  who,  from  his  immemorial 
infancy,  had  felt  the  consciousness  of  a high  message 
to  the  world ; but,  essaying  to  deliver  it,  had  found 
either  no  voice  or  form  of  speech,  or  else  no  ears  to 
listen.  Therefore  his  whole  life  was  a bitter  question- 
ing of  himself  — “ Why  have  not  men  acknowledged 
my  mission  ? Am  I not  a self-deluding  fool  ? What 
business  have  I on  earth  ? Where  is  my  grave  ? ” 
Throughout  the  festival,  he  quaffed  frequent  draughts 
from  the  sepulchral  urn  of  wine,  hoping  thus  to  quench 
the  celestial  fire  that  tortured  his  own  breast  and  could 
not  benefit  his  race. 

Then  there  entered,  having  flung  away  a ticket  for  a 
ball,  a gay  gallant  of  yesterday,  who  had  found  four 
or  five  wrinkles  in  his  brow,  and  more  gray  hairs  than 
lie  could  well  number  on  his  head.  Endowed  with 
sense  and  feeling,  he  had  nevertheless  spent  his  youth 
in  fol.y,  but  had  reached  at  last  that  dreary  point  in  life 
where  Folly  quits  us  of  her  own  accord,  leaving  us  to 


THE  CHRISTMAS  BANQUET. 


55 


make  friends  with  Wisdom  if  we  can.  Thus,  cold  and 
desolate,  he  had  come  to  seek  Wisdom  at  the  banquet, 
and  wondered  if  the  skeleton  were  she.  To  eke  out 
the  company,  the  stewards  had  invited  a distressed  poet 
from  his  home  in  the  almshouse,  and  a melancholy 
idiot  from  the  street  corner.  The  latter  had  just  the 
glimmering  of  sense  that  was  sufficient  to  make  him 
conscious  of  a vacancy,  which  the  poor  fellow,  all  his 
life  long,  had  mistily  sought  to  fill  up  with  intelligence, 
wandering  up  and  down  the  streets,  and  groaning  mis- 
erably because  his  attempts  were  ineffectual.  The 
only  lady  in  the  hall  was  one  who  had  fallen  short  of 
absolute  and  perfect  beauty,  merely  by  the  trifling  de- 
fect of  a slight  cast  in  her  left  eye.  But  this  blemish, 
minute  as  it  was,  so  shocked  the  pure  ideal  of  her  soul, 
rather  than  her  vanity,  that  she  passed  her  life  in  soli- 
tude, and  veiled  her  countenance  even  from  her  own 
gaze.  So  the  skeleton  sat  shrouded  at  one  end  of  the 
table  and  this  poor  lady  at  the  other. 

One  other  guest  remains  to  be  described.  He  was  a 
young  man  of  smooth  brow,  fair  cheek,  and  fashionable 
mien.  So  far  as  his  exterior  developed  him,  he  might 
much  more  suitably  have  found  a place  at  some  merry 
Christmas  table,  than  have  been  numbered  among  the 
blighted,  fate-stricken,  fancy-tortured  set  of  ill-starred 
banqueters.  Murmurs  arose  among  the  guests  as  they 
noted  the  glance  of  general  scrutiny  which  the  intruder 
threw  over  his  companions.  What  had  he  to  do  among 
them  ? Why  did  not  the  skeleton  of  the  dead  founder 
of  the  feast  unbend  its  rattling  joints,  arise,  and  motion 
the  unwelcome  stranger  from  the  board  ? 

“ Shameful ! ” said  the  morbid  man,  while  a new 


56 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


ulcer  broke  out  in  his  heart.  “ He  comes  to  mock  us  ! 
— we  shall  be  the  jest  of  his  tavern  friends  ! — he  will 
make  a farce  of  our  miseries,  and  bring  it  out  upon  the 
stage  ! ” 

“ O,  never  mind  him  ! ” said  the  hypochondriac,  smil- 
ing sourly.  “ He  shall  feast  from  yonder  tureen  of  vi- 
per soup  ; and  if  there  is  a fricassee  of  scorpions  on  the 
table,  pray  let  him  have  his  share  of  it.  For  the  des- 
sert, he  shall  taste  the  apples  of  Sodom.  Then,  if  he 
like  our  Christmas  fare,  let  him  return  again  next 
year ! ” 

“ Trouble  him  not,”  murmured  the  melancholy  man, 
with  gentleness.  w What  matters  it  whether  the  con- 
sciousness of  misery  come  a few  years  sooner  or  later? 
If  this  youth  deem  himself  happy  now,  yet  let  him  sit 
with  us  for  the  sake  of  the  wretchedness  to  come.” 

The  poor  idiot  approached  the  young  man  with  that 
mournful  aspect  of  vacant  inquiry  which  his  face  con- 
tinually wore,  and  which  caused  people  to  say  that  he 
was  always  in  search  of  his  missing  wits.  After  no 
little  examination  he  touched  the  stranger’s  hand,  but 
immediately  drew  back  his  own,  shaking  his  head  and 
shivering. 

“ Cold,  cold,  cold  ! ” muttered  the  idiot. 

The  young  man  shivered  too,  and  smiled. 

“ Gentlemen  — and  you,  madam,”  — said  one  of  the 
stewards  of  the  festival,  u do  not  conceive  so  ill  either 
of  our  caution  or  judgment,  as  to  imagine  that  we  have 
admitted  this  young  stranger — Gervayse  Hastings  by 
name  — without  a full  investigation  and  thoughtful  bal- 
ance of  his  claims.  Trust  me,  not  a guest  at  the  table 
is  better  entitled  to  his  seat.”  « 


THE  CHRISTMAS  BANQUET. 


57 


The  steward’s  guaranty  was  perforce  satisfactory. 
The  company,  therefore,  took  their  places,  and  ad- 
dressed themselves  to  the  serious  business  of  the  feast, 
but  were  soon  disturbed  by  the  hypochondriac,  who 
thrust  back  his  chair,  complaining  that  a dish  of  stewed 
toads  and  vipers  was  set  before  him,  and  that  there  was 
green  ditch  water  in  his  cup  of  wine.  This  mistake 
being  amended,  he  quietly  resumed  his  seat.  The  wine, 
as  it  flowed  freely  from  the  sepulchral  urn,  seemed  to 
come  imbued  with  all  gloomy  inspirations  ; so  that  its 
influence  was  not  to  cheer,  but  either  to  sink  the  revel- 
lers into  a deeper  melancholy,  or  elevate  their  spirits  to 
an  enthusiasm  of  wretchedness.  The  conversation  was 
various.  They  told  sad  stories  about  people  who  might 
have  been  worthy  guests  at  such  a festival  as  the  pres- 
ent. They  talked  of  grisly  incidents  in  human  his- 
tory ; of  strange  crimes,  which,  if  truly  considered,  were 
but  convulsions  of  agony  ; of  some  lives  that  had  been 
altogether  wretched,  and  of  others,  which,  wearing  a 
general  semblance  of  happiness,  had  yet  been  deformed, 
sooner  or  later,  by  misfortune,  as  by  the  intrusion  of  a 
grim  face  at  a banquet ; of  death-bed  scenes,  and  what 
dark  intimations  might  be  gathered  from  the  words  of 
dying  men  ; of  suicide,  and  whether  the  more  eligible 
mode  were  by  halter,  knife,  poison,  drowning,  gradual 
starvation,  or  the  fumes  of  charcoal.  The  majority  of 
the  guests,  as  is  the  custom  with  people  thoroughly  and 
profoundly  sick  at  heart,  were  anxious  to  make  their 
own  woes  the  theme  of  discussion,  and  prove  themselves 
most  excellent  in  anguish.  The  misanthropist  went 
deep  into  the  philosophy  of  evil,  and  wandered  about  in 
the  darkness,  with  now  and  then  a gleam  of  discolored 


58 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


light  hovering  on  ghastly  shapes  and  horrid  scenery. 
Many  a miserable  thought,  such  as  men  have  stumbled 
upon  from  age  to  age,  did  he  now  rake  up  again,  and 
gloat  over  it  as  an  inestimable  gem,  a diamond,  a 
treasure  far  preferable  to  those  bright,  spiritual  rev- 
elations of  a better  world,  which  are  like  precious 
stones  from  heaven’s  pavement.  And  then,  amid  his 
lore  of  wretchedness  he  hid  his  face  and  wept. 

It  was  a festival  at  which  the  woful  man  of  Uz  might 
suitably  have  been  a guest,  together  with  all,  in  each 
succeeding  age,  who  have  tasted  deepest  of  the  bitter- 
ness of  life.  And  be  it  said,  too,  that  every  son  or 
daughter  of  woman,  however  favored  with  happy  for- 
tune, might,  at  one  sad  moment  or  another,  have  claimed 
the  privilege  of  a stricken  heart,  to  sit  down  at  this  ta- 
ble. But,  throughout  the  feast,  it  was  remarked  that 
the  young  stranger,  Gervayse  Hastings,  was  unsuccess- 
ful in  his  attempts  to  catch  its  pervading  spirit.  At  any 
deep,  strong  thought  that  found  utterance,  and  which 
was  torn  out,  as  it  were,  from  the  saddest  recesses  of 
human  consciousness,  he  looked  mystified  and  bewil- 
dered ; even  more  than  the  poor  idiot,  who  seemed  to 
grasp  at  such  things  with  his  earnest  heart,  and  thus 
occasionally  to  comprehend  them.  The  young  man’s 
conversation  was  of  a colder  and  lighter  kind,  often 
brilliant,  but  lacking  the  powerful  characteristics  of  a 
nature  that  had  been  developed  by  suffering. 

“ Sir,”  said  the  misanthropist,  bluntly,  in  reply  to 
some  observation  by  Gervayse  Hastings,  u pray  do  not 
address  me  again.  We  have  no  right  to  talk  together. 
Our  minds  have  nothing  in  common.  By  what  claim 
you  appear  at  this  banquet  I cannot  guess  ; but  methinks, 


THE  CHRISTMAS  BANQUET. 


59 


to  a man  who  could  say  what  you  have  just  now  said, 
my  companions  and  myself  must  seem  no  more  than 
shadows  flickering  on  the  wall.  And  precisely  such  a 
shadow  are  you  to  us.” 

The  young  man  smiled  and  bowed,  but  drawing  him- 
self back  in  his  chair,  he  buttoned  his  coat  over  his 
breast,  as  if  the  banqueting  hall  were  growing  chill 
Again  the  idiot  fixed  his  melancholy  stare  upon  the 
youth,  and  murmured,  u Cold  ! cold  ! cold  ! ” 

The  banquet  drew  to  its  conclusion,  and  the  guests 
departed.  Scarcely  had  they  stepped  across  the  thresh- 
old of  the  hall,  when  the  scene  that  had  there  passed 
seemed  like  the  vision  of  a sick  fancy,  or  an  exhalation 
from  a stagnant  heart.  Now  and  then,  however, 
during  the  year  that  ensued,  these  melancholy  peo- 
ple caught  glimpses  of  one  another,  transient,  indeed, 
but  enough  to  prove  that  they  walked  the  earth  with  the 
ordinary  allotment  of  reality.  Sometimes  a pair  of 
them  came  face  to  face,  while  stealing  through  the 
evening  twilight,  enveloped  in  their  sable  cloaks.  Some- 
times they  casually  met  in  churchyards.  Once,  also,  it 
happened  that  two  of  the  dismal  banqueters  mutually 
started  at  recognizing  each  other  in  the  noonday  sun- 
shine of  a crowded  street,  stalking  there  like  ghosts 
astray.  Doubtless  they  wondered  why  the  skeleton  did 
not  come  abroad  at  noonday  too. 

But  whenever  the  necessity  of  their  affairs  compelled 
these  Christmas  guests  into  the  bustling  world,  they 
were  sure  to  encounter  the  young  man  who  had  so  un- 
accountably been  admitted  to  the  festival.  They  saw 
him  among  the  gay  and  fortunate  ; they  caught  the 
sunny  sparkle  of  his  eye  ; they  heard  the  light  and 


60 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


careless  tones  of  his  voice,  and  muttered  to  themselves 
with  such  indignation  as  only  the  aristocracy  of  wretch- 
edness could  kindle  — “ The  traitor  ! The  vile  impos- 
tor ! Providence,  in  its  own  good  time,  may  give  him  a 
right  to  feast  among  us  ! ” But  the  young  man’s  una- 
bashed eye  dwelt  upon  their  gloomy  figures  as  they 
passed  him,  seeming  to  say,  perchance  with  somewhat 
of  a sneer,  “ First,  know  my  secret ! — then,  measure 
your  claims  with  mine  ! ” 

The  step  of  Time  stole  onward,  and  soon  brought 
merry  Christmas  round  again,  with  glad  and  solemn 
worship  in  the  churches,  and  sports,  games,  festivals, 
and  every  where  the  bright  face  of  Joy  beside  the  house- 
hold fire.  Again  likewise  the  hall,  with  its  curtains  of 
dusky  purple,  was  illuminated  by  the  death  torches 
gleaming  on  the  sepulchral  decorations  of  the  banquet. 
The  veiled  skeleton  sat  in  state,  lifting  the  cypress 
wreath  above  its  head,  as  the  guerdon  of  some  guest 
illustrious  in  the  qualifications  which  there  claimed  pre- 
cedence. As  the  stewards  deemed  the  world  inex- 
haustible in  misery,  and  were  desirous  of  recognizing  it 
in  all  its  forms,  they  had  not  seen  fit  to  reassemble  the 
company  of  the  former  year.  New  faces  now  threw 
their  gloom  across  the  table. 

There  was  a man  of  nice  conscience,  who  bore  a 
blood  stain  in  his  heart  — the  death  of  a fellow-creature 
— which,  for  his  more  exquisite  torture,  had  chanced 
with  such  a peculiarity  of  circumstances,  that  he  could 
not  absolutely  determine  whether  his  will  had  entered 
into  the  deed  or  not.  Therefore,  his  whole  life  was 
spent  in  the  agony  of  an  inward  trial  for  murder,  with 
a continual  sifting  of  the  details  of  his  terrible  calamity, 


THE  CHRISTMAS  BANQUET. 


61 


until  his  mind  had  no  longer  any  thought,  nor  ins  soul 
any  emotion,  disconnected  with  it.  There  was  a mother, 
too  — a mother  once,  but  a desolation  now  — who,  many 
years  before,  had  gone  out  on  a pleasure  party,  and,  re- 
turning, found  her  infant  smothered  in  its  little  bed. 
And  ever  since  she  has  been  tortured  with  the  fantasy 
that  her  buried  baby  lay  smothering  in  its  coffin.  Then 
there  was  an  aged  lady,  who  had  lived  from  time  im- 
memorial with  a constant  tremor  quivering  through  her 
frame.  It  was  terrible  to  discern  her  dark  shadow 
tremulous  upon  the  wall ; her  lips,  likewise,  were  trem- 
ulous ; and  the  expression  of  her  eye  seemed  to  indicate 
that  her  soul  was  trembling  too.  Owing  to  the  bewil- 
derment and  confusion  which  made  almost  a chaos  of 
her  intellect,  it  was  impossible  to  discover  what  dire 
misfortune  had  thus  shaken  her  nature  to  its  depths ; so 
that  the  stewards  had  admitted  her  to  the  table,  not  from 
any  acquaintance  with  her  history,  but  on  the  safe  tes- 
timony of  her  miserable  aspect.  Some  surprise  was 
expressed  at  the  presence  of  a bluff,  red-faced  gentle- 
man, a certain  Mr.  Smith,  who  had  evidently  the  fat  of 
many  a rich  feast  within  him,  and  the  habitual  twinkle 
of  whose  eye  betrayed  a disposition  to  break  forth  into 
uproarious  laughter  for  little  cause  or  none.  It  turned 
out,  however,  that  with  the  best  possible  flow  of  spirits, 
our  poor  friend  was  afflicted  with  a physical  disease  of 
the  heart,  which  threatened  instant  death  on  the  slight- 
est cachinnatory  indulgence,  or  even  that  titillation  of  . 
the  bodily  frame  produced  by  merry  thoughts.  In  this 
dilemma  he  had  sought  admittance  to  the  banquet,  on 
the  ostensible  plea  of  his  irksome  and  miserable  state, 
but,  in  reality,  with  the  hope  of  imbibing  a life-preserv- 
ing melancholy. 


62 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


A married  couple  had  been  invited  from  a motive  of 
bitter  humor,  it  being  well  understood  that  they  ren- 
dered each  other  unutterably  miserable  whenever  they 
chanced  to  meet,  and  therefore  must  necessarily  be  fit 
associates  at  the  festival.  In  contrast  with  these  was 
another  couple  still  unmarried,  who  had  interchanged 
their  hearts  in  early  life,  but  had  been  divided  by  cir- 
cumstances as  impalpable  as  morning  mist,  and  kept 
apart  so  long  that  their  spirits  now  found  it  impossible 
to  meet.  Therefore,  yearning  for  communion,  yet 
shrinking  from  one  another  and  choosing  none  beside, 
they  felt  themselves  companionless  in  life,  and  looked 
upon  eternity  as  a boundless  desert.  Next  to  the 
skeleton  sat  a mere  son  of  earth  — a hunter  of  the 
Exchange  — a gatherer  of  shining  dust — a man  whose 
life’s  record  was  in  his  leger,  and  whose  soul’s  prison 
house  the  vaults  of  the  bank  where  he  kept  his  deposits. 
This  person  had  been  greatly  perplexed  at  his  invita- 
tion, deeming  himself  one  of  the  most  fortunate  men  in 
the  city  ; but  the  stewards  persisted  in  demanding  his 
presence,  assuring  him  that  he  had  no  conception  how 
miserable  he  was. 

And  now  appeared  a figure  which  we  must  acknowl- 
edge as  our  acquaintance  of  the  former  festival.  It 
was  Gervayse  Hastings,  whose  presence  had  then 
caused  so  much  question  and  criticism,  and  who  now 
took  his  place  with  the  composure  of  one  whose  claims 
were  satisfactory  to  himself  and  must  needs  be  allowed 
by  others.  Yet  his  easy  and  unruffled  face  betrayed 
no  sorrow.  The  well-skilled  beholders  gazed  a mo- 
ment into  his  eyes  and  shook  their  heads,  to  miss  the 
unuttered  sympathy  — the  countersign,  never  to  be  fal- 


THE  CHRISTMAS  BANQUET. 


63 


sified  — of  those  whose  hearts  are  cavern  mouths 
through  which  they  descend  into  a region  of  illimitable 
woe  and  recognize  other  wanderers  there. 

“ Who  is  this  youth  ? ” asked  the  man  with  a blood 
stain  on  his  conscience.  “ Surely  he  has  never  gone 
down  into  the  depths ! I know  all  the  aspects  of  those 
who  have  passed  through  the  dark  valley.  By  what 
right  is  he  among  us  ? ” 

“ Ah,  it  is  a sinful  thing  to  come  hither  without  a sor- 
row,” murmured  the  aged  lady,  in  accents  that  partook 
of  the  eternal  tremor  which  pervaded  her  whole  being. 
u Depart,  young  man  1 Your  soul  has  never  been 
shaken,  and,  therefore,  I tremble  so  much  the  more  to 
look  at  you.” 

“ His  soul  shaken  ! No ; I’ll  answer  for  it,”  said 
bluff  Mr.  Smith,  pressing  his  hand  upon  his  heart  and 
making  himself  as  melancholy  as  he  could,  for  fear  of 
a fatal  explosion  of  laughter.  “ I know  the  lad  well ; 
he  has  as  fair  prospects  as  any  young  man  about  town, 
and  has  no  more  right  among  us  miserable  creatures 
than  the  child  unborn.  He  never  was  miserable  and 
probably  never  will  be  ! ” 

“ Our  honored  guests,”  interposed  the  stewards, 
“ pray  have  patience  with  us,  and  believe,  at  least,  that 
our  deep  veneration  for  the  sacredness  of  this  solemni- 
ty would  preclude  any  wilful  violation  of  it.  Receive 
this  young  man  to  your  table.  It  may  not  be  too  much 
to  say,  that  no  guest  here  would  exchange  his  own  heart 
for  the  one  that  beats  within  that  youthful  bosom  ! ” 

“ I’d  call  it  a bargain,  and  gladly  too,”  muttered  Mr. 
Smith,  with  a perplexing  mixture  of  sadness  and  mirth- 
ful conceit.  “ A plague  upon  their  nonsense ! My 


64 


MOSSES  PROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


own  heart  is  the  only  really  miserable  one  in  the  com- 
pany ; it  will  certainly  be  the  death  of  me  at  last ! ” 

Nevertheless,  as  on  the  former  occasion,  the  judg- 
ment of  the  stewards  being  without  appeal,  the  com- 
pany sat  down.  The  obnoxious  guest  made  no  more 
attempt  to  obtrude  his  conversation  on  those  about  him, 
but  appeared  to  listen  to  the  table  talk  with  peculiar 
assiduity,  as  if  some  inestimable  secret,  otherwise  be- 
yond his  reach,  might  be  conveyed  in  a casual  word. 
And  in  truth,  to  those  who  could  understand  and  value 
it,  there  was  rich  matter  in  the  upgushings  and  out- 
pourings of  these  initiated  souls  to  whom  sorrow  had 
been  a talisman,  admitting  them  into  spiritual  depths 
which  no  other  spell  can  open.  Sometimes  out  of  the 
midst  of  densest  gloom  there  flashed  a momentary 
radiance,  pure  as  crystal,  bright  as  the  flame  of  stars, 
and  shedding  such  a glow  upon  the  mysteries  of  life 
that  the  guests  were  ready  to  exclaim,  “ Surely  the 
riddle  is  on  the  point  of  being  solved ! ” At  such 
illuminated  intervals  the  saddest  mourners  felt  it  to  be 
revealed  that  mortal  griefs  are  but  shadowy  and  ex- 
ternal ; no  more  than  the  sable  robes  voluminously 
shrouding  a certain  divine  reality,  and  thus  indicating 
what  might  otherwise  be  altogether  invisible  to  mortal 
eye. 

“ Just  now,”  remarked  the  trembling  old  woman,  “ I 
seemed  to  see  beyond  the  outside.  And  then  my  ever- 
lasting tremor  passed  away  ! ” 

“ Would  that  I could  dwell  always  in  these  momen- 
tary gleams  of  light ! ” said  the  man  of  stricken  con- 
science. u Then  the  blood  stain  in  my  heart  would  be 
washed  clean  away.” 


THE  CHRISTMAS  BANQUET. 


65 


This  strain  of  conversation  appeared  so  unintelligi- 
bly absurd  to  good  Mr.  Smith,  that  he  burst  into  pre- 
cisely the  fit  of  laughter  which  his  physicians  had 
warned  him  against,  as  likely  to  prove  instantaneously 
fatal.  In  effect,  he  fell  back  in  his  chair  a corpse, 
with  a broad  grin  upon  his  face,  while  his  ghost,  per- 
chance, remained  beside  it  bewildered  at  its  unpre- 
meditated exit.  This  catastrophe  of  course  broke  up 
the  festival. 

“ How  is  this  ? You  do  not  tremble  ? ” observed  the 
tremulous  old  woman  to  Gervayse  Hastings,  who  was 
gazing  at  the  dead  man  with  singular  intentness.  “ Is 
it  not  awful  to  see  him  so  suddenly  vanish  out  of  the 
midst  of  life  — this  man  of  flesh  and  blood,  whose 
earthly  nature  was  so  warm  and  strong  ? There  is  a 
never-ending  tremor  in  my  soul,  but  it  trembles  afresh 
at  this  ! And  you  are  calm  ! ” 

u Would  that  he  could  teach  me  somewhat!”  said 
Gervayse  Hastings,  drawing  a long  breath.  “ Men 
pass  before  me  like  shadows  on  the  wall ; their  actions, 
passions,  feelings  are  flickerings  of  the  light,  and  then 
they  vanish  ! Neither  the  corpse,  nor  yonder  skeleton, 
nor  this  old  woman’s  everlasting  tremor,  can  give  me 
what  I seek.” 

And  then  the  company  departed. 

We  cannot  linger  to  narrate,  in  such  detail,  more  cir- 
cumstances of  these  singular  festivals,  which,  in  accord- 
ance with  the  founder’s  will, continued  to  be  kept  with  the 
regularity  of  an  established  institution.  In  process  of 
time  the  stewards  adopted  the  custom  of  inviting,  from 
far  and  near,  those  individuals  whose  misfortunes  were 
prominent  above  other  men’s,  and  whose  mental  and 
VOL.  II.  5 


66 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


moral  development  might,  therefore,  be  supposed  to 
possess  a corresponding  interest.  The  exiled  noble  of 
the  French  Revolution,  and  the  broken  soldier  of  the 
Empire,  were  alike  represented  at  the  table.  Fallen 
monarchs,  wandering  about  the  earth,  have  found  places 
at  that  forlorn  and  miserable  feast.  The  statesman, 
when  his  party  flung  him  off,  might,  if  he  chose  it,  be 
once  more  a great  man  for  the  space  of  a single  ban- 
quet. Aaron  Burr’s  name  appears  on  the  record  at  a 
period  when  his  ruin  — the  profoundest  and  most 
striking,  with  more  of  moral  circumstance  in  it  than 
that  of  almost  any  other  man  — was  complete  in  hi's 
lonely  age.  Stephen  Girard,  when  his  wealth  weighed 
upon  him  like  a mountain,  once  sought  admittance  of 
his  own  accord.  It  is  not  probable,  however,  that  these 
men  had  any  lesson  to  teach  in  the  lore  of  discontent 
and  misery  which  might  not  equally  well  have  been 
studied  in  the  common  walks  of  life.  Illustrious  un- 
fortunates attract  a wider  sympathy,  not  because  their 
griefs  are  more  intense,  but  because,  being  set  on  lofty 
pedestals,  they  the  better  serve  mankind  as  instances 
and  bywords  of  calamity. 

It  concerns  our  present  purpose  to  say  that,  at  each 
successive  festival,  Gervayse  Hastings  showed  his  face, 
gradually  changing  from  the  smooth  beauty  of  his 
youth  to  the  thoughtful  comeliness  of  manhood,  and 
thence  to  the  bald,  impressive  dignity  of  age.  He  was 
the  only  individual  invariably  present.  Yet  on  every 
occasion  there  were  murmurs,  both  from  those  who 
knew  his  character  and  position,  and  from  them  whose 
hearts  shrank  back  as  denying  his  companionship  in 
their  mystic  fraternity. 


THE  CHRISTMAS  BANQUET. 


67 


tc  Who  is  this  impassive  man  ? ” had  been  asked  a 
hundred  times.  “ Has  he  suffered  ? Has  he  sinned  ? 
There  are  no  traces  of  either.  Then  wherefore  is  he 
here  ? ” 

“ You  must  inquire  of  the  stewards  or  of  himself,” 
was  the  constant  reply.  “ We  seem  to  know  him  well 
here  in  our  city,  and  know  nothing  of  him  but  what  is 
creditable  and  fortunate.  Yet  hither  he  comes,  year 
after  year,  to  this  gloomy  banquet,  and  sits  among  the 
guests  like  a marble  statue.  Ask  yonder  skeleton, 
perhaps  that  may  solve  the  riddle  ! ” 

It  was  in  truth  a wonder.  The  life  of  Gervayse 
Hastings  was  not  merely  a prosperous,  but  a brilliant 
one.  Every  thing  had  gone  well  with  him.  He  was 
wealthy,  far  beyond  the  expenditure  that  was  required 
by  habits  of  magnificence,  a taste  of  rare  purity  and 
cultivation,  a love  of  travel,  a scholar’s  instinct  to  col- 
lect a splendid  library,  and,  moreover,  what  seemed  a 
magnificent  liberality  to  the  distressed.  He  had  sought 
happiness,  and  not  vainly,  if  a lovely  and  tender  wife, 
and  children  of  fair  promise,  could  insure  it.  He  had, 
besides,  ascended  above  the  limit  which  separates  the 
obscure  from  the  distinguished,  and  had  won  a stainless 
reputation  in  affairs  of  the  widest  public  importance. 
Not  that  he  was  a popular  character,  or  had  within  him 
the  mysterious  attributes  which  are  essential  to  that 
spec  ies  of  success.  To  the  public  he  was  a cold  ab- 
straction, wholly  destitute  of  those  rich  hues  of  person- 
ality, that  living  warmth,  and  the  peculiar  faculty  of 
stamping  his  own  heart’s  impression  on  a multitude  of 
hearts  by  which  the  people  recognize  their  favorites. 
And  it  must  be  owned  that,  after  his  most  intimate 


68 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


associates  bad  done  their  best  to  know  him  thoroughly, 
and  love  him  warmly,  they  were  startled  to  find  how 
little  hold  he  had  upon  their  affections.  They  approved, 
they  admired,  but  still  in  those  moments  when  the  hu- 
man spirit  most  craves  reality,  they  shrank  back  from 
Gervayse  Hastings,  as  powerless  to  give  them  what 
they  sought.  It  was  the  feeling  of  distrustful  regret 
with  which  we  should  draw  back  the  hand  after  extend- 
ing it,  in  an  illusive  twilight,  to  grasp  the  hand  of  a 
shadow  upon  the  wall. 

As  the  superficial  fervency  of  youth  decayed,  this 
peculiar  effect  of  Gervayse  Hastings’s  character  grew 
more  perceptible.  His  children,  when  he  extended  his 
arms,  came  coldly  to  his  knees,  but  never  climbed  them 
of  their  own  accord.  His  wife  wept  secretly,  and  al- 
most adjudged  herself  a criminal  because  she  shivered 
in  the  chill  of  his  bosom.  He,  too,  occasionally  ap- 
peared not  unconscious  of  the  chillness  of  his  moral 
atmosphere,  and  willing,  if  it  might  be  so,  to  warm 
himself  at  a kindly  fire.  But  age  stole  onward  and 
benumbed  him  more  and  more.  As  the  hoarfrost  be- 
gan to  gather  on  him  his  wife  went  to  her  grave,  and 
was  doubtless  warmer  there  ; his  children  either  died 
or  were  scattered  to  different  homes  of  their  own  ; and 
old  Gervayse  Hastings,  unscathed  by  grief  — alone,  but 
needing  no  companionship,  continued  his  steady  walk 
through  life,  and  still  on  every  Christmas  day  attended 
at  the  dismal  banquet.  His  privilege  as  a guest  had 
become  prescriptive  now.  Had  he  claimed  the  head 
of  the  table,  even  the  skeleton  would  have  been  ejected 
from  its  seat. 

Finally,  at  the  merry  Christmas  tide,  when  he  had 


THE  CHRISTMAS  BANQUET. 


69 


numbered  fourscore  years  complete,  this  pale,  high- 
browed,  marble-featured  old  man  once  more  entered 
the  long-frequented  hall,  with  the  same  impassive  as- 
pect that  had  called  forth  so  much  dissatisfied  remark 
at  his  first  attendance.  Time,  except  in  matters  merely 
external,  had  done  nothing  for  him,  either  of  good  or 
evil.  As  he  took  his  place  he  threw  a calm,  inquiring 
glance  around  the  table,  as  if  to  ascertain  whether  any 
guest  had  yet  appeared,  after  so  many  unsuccessful 
banquets,  who  might  impart  to  him  the  mystery  — the 
deep,  warm  secret — the  life  within  the  life — which, 
whether  manifested  in  joy  or  sorrow,  is  what  gives  sub- 
stance to  a world  of  shadows. 

“ My  friends,”  said  Gervayse  Hastings,  assuming  a 
position  which  his  long  conversance  with  the  festival 
caused  to  appear  natural,  “ you  are  welcome  ! I drink 
to  you  all  in  this  cup  of  sepulchral  wine.” 

The  guests  replied  courteously,  but  still  in  a manner 
that  proved  them  unable  to  receive  the  old  man  as  a 
member  of  their  sad  fraternity.  It  may  be  well  to  give 
the  reader  an  idea  of  the  present  company  at  the  ban- 
quet. 

One  was  formerly  a clergyman,  enthusiastic  in  his 
profession,  and  apparently  of  the  genuine  dynasty  of 
those  old  puritan  divines  whose  faith  in  their  calling, 
and  stern  exercise  of  it,  had  placed  them  among  the 
mighty  of  the  earth.  But  yielding  to  the  speculative 
tendency  of  the  age,  he  had  gone  astray  from  the  firm 
foundation  of  an  ancient  faith,  and  wandered  into  a 
cloud  region,  where  every  thing  was  misty  and  decep- 
tive, ever  mocking  him  with  a semblance  of  reality,  but 
still  dissolving  when  he  flung  himself  upon  it  for  sup- 


70 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


port  and  rest.  His  instinct  and  early  training  demanded 
something  steadfast ; but,  looking  forward,  he  beheld 
vapors  piled  on  vapors,  and  behind  him  an  impassable 
gulf  between  the  man  of  yesterday  and  to-day,  on  the 
borders  of  which  he  paced  to  and  fro,  sometimes  wring- 
ing his  hands  in  agony,  and  often  making  his  own  woe 
a theme  of  scornful  merriment.  This  surely  was  a 
miserable  man.  Next,  there  was  a theorist  — one  of  a 
numerous  tribe,  although  he  deemed  himself  unique 
since  the  creation  — a theorist,  who  had  conceived  a 
plan  by  which  all  the  wretchedness  of  earth,  moral  and 
physical,  might  be  done  away,  and  the  bliss  of  the  mil- 
lennium at  once  accomplished.  But2  the  incredulity  of 
mankind  debarring  him  from  action,  he  was  smitten 
with  as  much  grief  as  if  the  whole  mass  of  woe  which 
he  was  denied  the  opportunity  to  remedy  were  crowded 
into  his  own  bosom.  A plain  old  man  in  black  at- 
tracted much  of  the  company’s  notice,  on  the  supposi- 
tion that  he  was  no  other  than  Father  Miller,  who,  it 
seemed,  had  given  himself  up  to  despair  at  the  tedious 
delay  of  the  final  conflagration.  Then  there  was  a 
man  distinguished  for  native  pride  and  obstinacy,  who, 
a little  while  before,  had  possessed  immense  wealth, 
and  held  the  control  of  a vast  moneyed  interest  which 
he  had  wielded  in  the  same  spirit  as  a despotic  mon- 
arch would  wield  the  power  of  his  empire,  carrying  on 
a tremendous  moral  warfare,  the  roar  and  tremor  of 
which  was  felt  at  every  fireside  in  the  land.  At  length 
came  a crushing  ruin  — jx  total  overthrow  of  fortune 
power,  and  character — the  effect  of  which  on  his  im- 
perious and,  in  many  respects,  noble  and  lofty  nature, 


THE  CHRISTMAS  BANQUET. 


71 


might  have  entitled  him  to  a place,  not  merely  at  out 
festival,  but  among  the  peers  of  Pandemonium. 

There  was  a modern  philanthropist,  who  had  become 
so  deeply  sensible  of  the  calamities  of  thousands  and 
millions  of  his  fellow-creatures,  and  of  the  impractica- 
bleness of  any  general  measures  for  their  relief,  that 
he  had  no  heart  to  do  what  little  good  lay  immediately 
within  his  power,  but  contented  himself  with  being  mis* 
erable  for  sympathy.  Near  him  sat  a gentleman  in  a 
predicament  hitherto  unprecedented,  but  of  which  the 
present  epoch  probably  affords  numerous  examples. 
Ever  since  he  was  of  capacity  to  read  a newspaper 
this  person  had  prided  himself  on  his  consistent  adher- 
ence to  one  political  party,  but,  in  the  confusion  of  these 
latter  days,  had  got  bewildered  and  knew  not  wherea- 
bouts his  party  was.  This  wretched  condition,  so  mor- 
ally desolate  and  disheartening  to  a man  who  has  long 
accustomed  himself  to  merge  his  individuality  in  the 
mass  of  a great  body,  can  only  be  conceived  by  such 
as  have  experienced  it.  His  next  companion  was  a 
popular  orator  who  had  lost  his  voice,  and  — as  it  was 
pretty  much  all  that  he  had  to  lose  — had  fallen  into  a 
state  of  hopeless  melancholy.  The  table  was  likewise 
graced  by  two  of  the  gentler  sex  — one,  a half-starved, 
consumptive  seamstress,  the  representative  of  thousands 
just  as  wretched  ; the  other,  a woman  of  unemployed 
energy,  who  found  herself  in  the  world  with  nothing  to 
achieve,  nothing  to  enjoy,  and  nothing  even  to  suffer. 
She  had,  therefore,  driven  herself  to  the  verge  of  mad- 
ness by  dark  broodings  over  the  wrongs  of  her  sex, 
and  its  exclusion  from  a proper  field  of  action.  The 


72 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


roll  of  guests  being  thus  complete,  a side  table  had 
been  set  for  three  or  four  disappointed  office  seekers, 
with  hearts  as  sick  as  death,  whom  the  stewards  had 
admitted  partly  because  their  calamities  really  entitled 
them  to  entrance  here,  and  partly  that  they  were  in  es- 
pecial need  of  a good  dinner.  There  was  likewise  a 
homeless  dog,  with  his  tail  between  his  legs,  licking  up 
the  crums  and  gnawing  the  fragments  of  the  feast  — 
such  a melancholy  cur  as  one  sometimes  sees  about  the 
streets  without  a master,  and  willing  to  follow  the  first 
that  will  accept  his  service. 

In  their  own  way,  these  were  as  wretched  a set  of 
people  as  ever  had  assembled  at  the  festival.  There 
they  sat,  with  the  veiled  skeleton  of  the  founder  hold- 
ing aloft  the  cypress  wreath,  at  one  end  of  the  table, 
and  at  the  other,  wrapped  in  furs,  the  withered  figure  of 
Gervayse  Hastings,  stately,  calm,  and  cold,  impressing 
the  company  with  awe,  yet  so  little  interesting  their 
sympathy  that  he  might  have  vanished  into  thin  air 
without  their  once  exclaiming,  “ Whither  is  he 
gone  ? ” 

“ Sir,”  said  the  philanthropist,  addressing  the  old 
man,  46  you  have  been  so  long  a guest  at  this  annual 
festival,  and  have  thus  been  conversant  with  so  many 
varieties  of  human  affliction,  that,  not  improbably,  you 
have  thence  derived  some  great  and  important  lessons. 
How  blessed  were  your  lot  could  you  reveal  a secret  by 
which  all  this  mass  of  woe  might  be  removed  ! ” 

“ I know  of  but  one  misfortune,”  answered  Gervayse 
Hastings,  quietly,  “ and  that  is  my  own.” 

“ Your  own  ! ” rejoined  the  philanthropist.  M And 


THE  CHRISTMAS  BANQUET. 


73 


looking  back  on  your  serene  and  prosperous  life,  liow 
can  you  claim  to  be  the  sole  unfortunate  of  the  human 
race  ? ” 

“ You  will  not  understand  it,”  replied  Gervayse 
Hastings,  feebly,  and  with  a singular  inefficiency  of 
pronunciation,  and  sometimes  putting  one  word  for 
another.  “ None  have  understood  it  — not  even  those 
who  experience  the  like.  It  is  a chillness  — a want 
of  earnestness  — a feeling  as  if  what  should  be  my 
heart  were  a thing  of  vapor — a haunting  perception 
of  unreality ! Thus  seeming  to  possess  all  that  other 
men  have  — all  that  men  aim  at  — I have  really  pos- 
sessed nothing,  neither  joy  nor  griefs.  All  things,  all 
persons  — as  was  truly  said  to  me  at  this  table  long 
and  long  ago  — have  been  like  shadows  flickering  on 
the  wall.  It  was  so  with  my  wife  and  children  — with 
those  who  seemed  my  friends  : it  is  so  with  yourselves, 
whom  I see  now  before  me.  Neither  have  I myself 
any  real  existence,  but  am  a shadow  like  the  rest.” 

“ And  how  is  it  with  your  views  of  a future  life  ? ” 
inquired  the  speculative  clergyman. 

“ Worse  than  with  you,”  said  the  old  man,  in  a hol- 
low and  feeble  tone  ; “ for  I cannot  conceive  it  ear- 
nestly enough  to  feel  either  hope  or  fear.  Mine  — 
mine  is  the  wretchedness  ! This  cold  heart  — this  un- 
real life  ! Ah  ! it  grows  colder  still.” 

It  so  chanced  that  at  this  juncture  the  decayed  liga- 
ments of  the  skeleton  gave  way,  and  the  dry  bones  fell 
together  in  a heap,  thus  causing  the  dusty  wreath  of 
cypress  to  drop  upon  the  table.  The  attention  of  the 
company  being  thus  diverted  for  a single  instant  from 
Gervayse  Hastings,  they  perceived,  on  turning  again 


74 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


towards  him,  that  the  old  man  had  undergone  a change. 
His  shadow  had  ceased  to  flicker  on  the  wall. 

44  Well,  Rosina,  what  is  your  criticism  ? ” asked  Rod- 
erick, as  he  rolled  up  the  manuscript. 

46  Frankly,  your  success  is  by  no  means  complete,” 
replied  she.  44  It  is  true,  I have  an  idea  of  the  charac- 
ter you  endeavor  to  describe  ; but  it  is  rather  by  dint 
of  my  own  thought  than  your  expression.” 

44  That  is  unavoidable,”  observed  the  sculptor,  44  be- 
cause the  characteristics  are  all  negative.  If  Gervayse 
Hastings  could  have  imbibed  one  human  grief  at  the 
gloomy  banquet,  the  task  of  describing  him  would  have 
been  infinitely  easier.  Of  such  persons  — and  we  do 
meet  with  these  moral  monsters  now  and  then  — it  is 
difficult  to  conceive  how  they  came  to  exist  here,  or 
what  there  is  in  them  capable  of  existence  hereafter. 
They  seem  to  be  on  the  outside  of  every  thing ; and 
nothing  wearies  the  soul  more  than  an  attempt  to  com- 
prehend them  within  its  grasp.” 


LIBRARY 

~^Pr 

5&LINOV5; 


// 


DROWNED  WOODEN  IMAGE. 

One  sunshiny  morning,  in  the  good  old  times  of  the 
town  of  Boston,  a young  carver  in  wood,  well  known 
by  the  name  of  Drowne,  stood  contemplating  a large 
oaken  log,  which  it  was  his  purpose  to  convert  into  the 
figure  head  of  a vessel.  And  while  he  discussed  within 
his  own  mind  what  sort  of  shape  or  similitude  it  were 
well  to  bestow  upon  this  excellent  piece  of  timber, 
there  came  into  Drowne’s  workshop  a certain  Captain 
H unne well,  owner  and  commander  of  the  good  brig 
called  the  Cynosure,  which  had  just  returned  from  her 
first  voyage  to  Fayal. 

. “ Ah  ! that  will  do,  Drowne,  that  will  do  ! ” cried  the 
jolly  captain,  tapping  the  log  with  his  ratan.  u I be 
speak  this  very  piece  of  oak  for  the  figure  head  of  the 
Cynosure.  She  has  shown  herself  the  sweetest  craft 
that  ever  floated,  and  I mean  to  decorate  her  prow  with 
the  handsomest  image  that  the  skill  of  man  can  cut 
out  of  timber.  And,  Drowne,  you  are  the  fellow  to  ex- 
ecute it.” 

“ You  give  me  more  credit  than  I deserve,  Captain 
Hunnewell,”  said  the  carver,  modestly,  yet  as  one  con- 
scious of  eminence  in  his  art.  “ But,  for  the  sake  of 
the  good  brig,  I stand  ready  to  do  my  best.  And 
which  of  these  designs  do  you  prefer  ? Here  ” — 

(75) 


76 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


pointing  to  a staring,  half-length  figure,  in  a white  wig 
and  scarlet  coat  — “ here  is  an  excellent  model,  the 
likeness  of  our  gracious  king.  Here  is  the  valiant 
Admiral  Vernon.  Or,  if  you  prefer  a female  figure, 
what  say  you  to  Britannia  with  the  trident  ? ” 

“ All  very  fine,  Drowne  ; all  very  fine,”  answered 
the  mariner.  “ But  as  nothing  like  the  brig  ever  swam 
the  ocean,  so  I am  determined  she  shall  have  such  a 
figure  head  as  old  Neptune  never  saw  in  his  life.  And 
what  is  more,  as  there  is  a secret  in  the  matter,  you 
must  pledge  your  credit  not  to  betray  it.” 

“ Certainly,”  said  Drowne,  marvelling,  however, 
what  possible  mystery  there  could  be  in  reference  to  an 
affair  so  open,  of  necessity,  to  the  inspection  of  all  the 
world  as  the  figure  head  of  a vessel.  “ You  may  de- 
pend, captain,  on  my  being  as  secret  as  the  nature  of 
the  case  will  permit.” 

Captain  Hunnewell  then  took  Drowne  by  the  button, 
and  communicated  his  wishes  in  so  low  a tone  that  it 
would  be  unmannerly  to  repeat  what  was  evidently 
intended  for  the  carver’s  private  ear.  We  shall, 
therefore,  take  the  opportunity  to  give  the  reader  a few 
desirable  particulars  about  Drowne  himself. 

He  was  the  first  American  who  is  known  to  have  at- 
tempted — in  a very  humble  line,  it  is  true  — that  art 
in  which  we  can  now  reckon  so  many  names  already 
distinguished,  or  rising  to  distinction.  From  his  earliest 
boyhood  he  had  exhibited  a knack  — for  it  would  be 
too  proud  a word  to  call  it  genius  — a knack,  therefore, 
for  the  imitation  of  the  human  figure  in  whatever  ma- 
terial came  most  readily  to  hand.  The  snows  of  a 
New  EngJhnd  winter  had  often  supplied  him  with  a 


drowne’s  wooden  image. 


77 


species  of  marble  as  dazzlingly  white,  at  least,  as  the 
Parian  or  the  Carrara,  and  if  less  durable,  yet  suffi- 
ciently so  to  correspond  with  any  claims  to  permanent 
existence  possessed  by  the  boy’s  frozen  statues.  Yet 
they  won  admiration  from  maturer  judges  than  his 
schoolfellows,  and  were,  indeed,  remarkably  clever, 
though  destitute  of  the  native  warmth  that  might  have 
made  the  snow  melt  beneath  his  hand.  As  he  advanced 
in  life,  the  young  man  adopted  pine  and  oak  as  eligi- 
ble materials  for  the  display  of  his  skill,  which  now 
began  to  bring  him  a return  of  solid  silver  as  well  as 
the  empty  praise  that  had  been  an  apt  reward  enough 
for  his  productions  of  evanescent  snow.  He  became 
noted  for  carving  ornamental  pump  heads,  and  wooden 
urns  for  gate  posts,  and  decorations,  more  grotesque 
than  fanciful,  for  mantelpieces.  No  apothecary  would 
have  deemed  himself  in  the  way  of  obtaining  cus- 
tom without  setting  up  a gilded  mortar,  if  not  a head 
of  Galen  or  Hippocrates,  from  the  skilful  hand  of 
Drowne. 

But  the  great  scope  of  his  business  lay  in  the  manu- 
facture of  figure  heads  for  vessels.  Whether  it  were 
the  monarch  himself,  or  some  famous  British  admiral  or 
general,  or  the  governor  of  the  province,  or  perchance 
the  favorite  daughter  of  the  ship  owner,  there  the  im- 
age stood  above  the  prow,  decked  out  in  gorgeous  colors, 
magnificently  gilded,  and  staring  the  whole  world  out 
of  countenance,  as  if  from  an  innate  consciousness  of 
its  own  superiority.  These  specimens  of  native  sculp- 
ture had  crossed  the  sea  in  all  directions,  and  been 
not  ignobly  noticed  among  the  crowded  shipping  of  the 
Thames,  and  wherever  else  the  hardy  mariners  of  New 


78 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


England  had  pushed  their  adventures.  It  must  be 
confessed  that  a family  likeness  pervaded  these  re- 
spectable progeny  of  Drowne’s  skill ; that  the  benign 
countenance  of  the  king  resembled  those  of  his  subjects, 
and  that  Miss  Peggy  Hobart,  the  merchant’s  daughter, 
bore  a remarkable  similitude  to  Britannia,  Victory,  and 
other  ladies  of  the  allegoric  sisterhood ; and,  finally, 
that  they  all  had  a kind  of  wooden  aspect,  which  proved 
an  intimate  relationship  with  the  unshaped  blocks  of 
timber  in  the  carver’s  workshop.  But  at  least  there 
was  no  inconsiderable  skill  of  hand,  nor  a deficiency  of 
any  attiibute  to  render  them  really  works  of  art,  except 
that  deep  quality,  be  it  of  soul  or  intellect,  which  be- 
stows life  upon  the  lifeless  and  warmth  upon  the  cold, 
and  which,  had  it  been  present,  would  have  made 
Drowne’s  wooden  image  instinct  with  spirit. 

The  captain  of  the  Cynosure  had  now  finished  his 
instructions. 

“ And  Drowne,”  said  he,  impressively,  “ you  must 
lay  aside  all  other  business  and  set  about  this  forthwith. 
And  as  to  the  price,  only  do  the  job  in  first  rate  style, 
and  you  shall  settle  that  point  yourself.” 

“ Very  well,  captain,”  answered  the  carver,  who 
looked  grave  and  somewhat  perplexed,  yet  had  a sort 
of  smile  upon  his  visage  ; “ depend  upon  it,  I’ll  do  my 
utmost  to  satisfy  you.” 

From  that  moment  the  men  of  taste  about  Long 
Wharf  and  the  Town  Dock  who  were  wont  to  show 
their  love  for  the  arts  by  frequent  visits  to  Drowne’s 
workshop,  and  admiration  of  his  wooden  images,  began 
to  be  sensible  of  a mystery  in  the  carver’s  conduct. 
Often  he  was  absent  in  the  daytime.  Sometimes,  as 


drowne’s  wooden  image. 


70 


might  be  judged  by  gleams  of  light  from  the  shop  win- 
dows, he  was  at  work  until  a late  hour  of  the  evening; 
although  neither  knock  nor  voice,  on  such  occasions, 
could  gain  admittance  for  a visitor,  or  elicit  any  word 
of  response.  Nothing  remarkable,  however,  was  ob- 
served in  the  shop  at  those  hours  when  it  was  thrown 
open.  A fine  piece  of  timber,  indeed,  which  Drowne 
was  known  to  have  reserved  for  some  work  of  especial 
dignity,  was  seen  to  b&  gradually  assuming  shape. 
What  shape  it  was  destined  ultimately  to  take  was  a 
problem  to  his  friends  and  a point  on  which  the  carver 
himself  preserved  a rigid  silence.  But  day  after  day, 
though  Drowne  was  seldom  noticed  in  the  act  of  work- 
ing upon  it,  this  rude  form  began  to  be  developed  until 
it  became  evident  to  all  observers  that  a female  figure 
was  growing  into  mimic  life.  At  each  new  visit  they 
beheld  a larger  pile  of  wooden  chips  and  a nearer  ap- 
proximation to  something  beautiful.  It  seemed  as  if 
the  hamadryad  of  the  oak  had  sheltered  herseff  from 
the  unimaginative  world  within  the  heart  of  her  native 
tree,  and  that  it  was  only  necessary  to  remove  the 
strange  shapelessness  that  had  incrusted  her,  and  reveal 
the  grace  and  loveliness  of  a divinity.  Imperfect  as 
the  design,  the  attitude,  the  costume,  and  especially  the 
face  of  the  image  still  remained,  there  was  already  an 
effect  that  drew  the  eye  from  the  wooden  cleverness  of 
Drowne’s  earlier  productions  and  fixed  it  upon  the 
tantalizing  mystery  of  this  new  project. 

Copley,  the  celebrated  painter,  then  a young  man 
and  a resident  of  Boston,  came  one  day  to  visit  Drowne ; 
for  he  had  recognized  so  much  of  moderate  ability  in 
the  carver  as  to  induce  him,  in  the  dearth  of  profes 


80 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


sional  sympathy,  to  cultivate  his  acquaintance.  On 
entering  the  shop  the  artist  glanced  at  the  inflexible  im- 
age of  king,  commander,  dame,  and  allegory  that  stood 
around,  on  the  best  of  which  might  have  been  be- 
stowed the  questionable  praise  that  it  looked  as  if  a 
living  man  had  here  been  changed  to  wood,  and  that 
not  only  the  physical,  but  the  intellectual  and  spiritual 
part,  partook  of  the  stolid  transformation.  But  in  not 
a single  instance  did  it  seem  as  if  the  wood  were  im- 
bibing the  ethereal  essence  of  humanity.  What  a wide 
distinction  is  here  ! and  how  far  would  the  slightest 
portion  of  the  latter  merit  have  outvalued  the  utmost 
degree  of  the  former  ! 

u My  friend  Drowne,”  said  Copley,  smiling  to  him- 
self, but  alluding  to  the  mechanical  and  wooden  clever- 
ness that  so  invariably  distinguished  the  images,  u you 
are  really  a remarkable  person  ! I have  seldom  met 
with  a man  in  your  line  of  business  that  could  do  so 
much  ; for  one  other  touch  might  make  this  figure  of 
General  Wolfe,  for  instance,  a breathing  and  intelligent 
human  creature.” 

“ You  would  have  me  think  that  you  are  praising  me 
highly,  Mr.  Copley,”  answered  Drowne,  turning  his 
back  upon  Wolfe’s  image  in  apparent  disgust.  “ But 
there  has  come  a light  into  my  mind.  I know,  what 
you  know  as  well,  that  the  one  touch  which  you  speak  of 
as  deficient  is  the  only  one  that  would  be  truly  valuable, 
and  that  without  it  these  works  of  mine  are  no  better 
than  worthless  abortions..  There  is  the  same  difference 
between  them  and  the  works  of  an  inspired  artist  aa 
between  a sign-post  daub  and  one  of  your  best  pic- 
tures.” 


drowne’s  wooden  image. 


81 


44  This  is  strange,”  cried  Copley,  looking  him  in  the 
face,  which  now,  as  the  painter  fancied,  had  a singular 
depth  of  intelligence,  though  hitherto  it  had  not  given 
him  greatly  the  advantage  over  his  own  family  of  wood- 
en images.  u What  has  come  over  you  ? How  is  it 
that,  possessing  the  idea  which  you  have  now  uttered, 
you  should  produce  only  such  works  as  these  ? ” 

The  carver  smiled,  but  made  no  reply.  Copley 
turned  again  to  the  images,  conceiving  that  the  sense 
of  deficiency  which  Drowne  had  just  expressed,  and 
which  is  so  rare  in  a merely  mechanical  character, 
must  surely  imply  a genius,  the  tokens  of  which  had 
heretofore  been  overlooked.  But  no ; there  was  not  a 
trace  of  it.  He  was  about  to  withdraw  when  his  eyes 
chanced  to  fall  upon  a half-developed  figure  which  lay 
in  a corner  of  the  workshop,  surrounded  by  scattered 
chips  of  oak.  It  arrested  him  at  once. 

“ What  is  here  ? Who  has  done  this  ? ” he  broke 
out,  after  contemplating  it  in  speechless  astonishment 
for  an  instant.  “ Here  is  the  divine,  the  life-giving 
touch.  What  inspired  hand  is  beckoning  this  wood  to 
arise  and  live  ? Whose  work  is  this  ? ” 

“ No  man’s  work,”  replied  Drowne.  “ The  figure 
lies  within  that  block  of  oak,  and  it  is  my  business  to 
find  it.” 

“ Drowne,”  said  the  true  artist,  grasping  the  carver 
fervently  by  the  hand,  “ you  are  a man  of  genius  ! ” 
As  Copley  departed,  happening  to  glance  backward 
from  the  threshold,  he  beheld  Drowne  bendmg  over  the 
half-created-  shape,  and  stretching  forth  his  arms  as  if 
he  would  have  embraced  and  drawn  it  to  his  heart ; 
while,  had  such  a miracle  been  possible,  his  count*- 


82 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


nance  expressed  passion  enough  to  communicate  warmth 
and  sensibility  to  the  lifeless  oak. 

“ Strange  enough  ! ” said  the  artist  to  himself.  “Who 
would  have  looked  for  a modern  Pygmalion  in  the  per- 
son of  a Yankee  mechanic  ! ” 

As  yet,  the  image  was  but  vague  in  its  outward  pre- 
sentment ; so  that,  as  in  the  cloud  shapes  around  the 
western  sun,  the  observer  rather  felt,  or  was  led  to 
imagine,  than  really  saw  what  was  intended  by  it.  Day 
by  day,  however,  the  work  assumed  greater  precision, 
and  settled  its  irregular  and  misty  outline  into  distincter 
grace  and  beauty.  The  general  design  was  now  ob- 
vious to  the  common  eye.  It  was  a female  figure,  in 
what  appeared  to  be  a foreign  dress ; the  gown  being 
laced  over  the  bosom,  and  opening  in  front  so  as  to  dis- 
close a skirt  or  petticoat,  the  folds  and  inequalities  of 
which  were  admirably  represented  in  the  oaken  sub- 
stance. She  wore  a hat  of  singular  gracefulness,  and 
abundantly  laden  with  flowers,  such  as  never  grew  in 
the  rude  soil  of  New  England,  but  which,  with  all  their 
fanciful  luxuriance,  had  a natural  truth  that  it  seemed 
impossible  for  the  most  fertile  imagination  to  have 
attained  without  copying  from  real  prototypes.  There 
were  several  little  appendages  to  this  dress,  such  as  a 
ian,  a pair  of  earrings,  a chain  about  the  neck,  a watch 
in  the  bosom,  and  a ring  upon  the  finger,  all  of  which 
would  have  been  deemed  beneath  the  dignity  of  sculp- 
ture. They  were  put  on,  however,  with  as  much  taste 
as  a lovely  woman  might  have  shown  in  ner  attire,  and 
could  therefore  have  shocked  none  but  a judgment 
spoiled  by  artistic  rules. 

The  face  was  still  imperfect;  but  gradually,  by  a 


drowne’s  wooden  image. 


83 


magic  touch,  intelligence  and  sensibility  brightened 
through  the  features,  with  all  the  effect  of  light  gleam- 
ing forth  from  within  the  solid  oak.  The  face  be- 
came alive.  It  was  a beautiful,  though  not  precisely 
regular,  and  somewhat  haughty  aspect,  but  with  a cer- 
tain piquancy  about  the  eyes  and  mouth,  which,  of  all 
expressions,  would  have  seemed  the  most  impossible 
to  throw  over  a wooden  countenance.  And  now,  so 
far  as  carving  went,  this  wonderful  production  was 
complete. 

“ Drowne,”  said  Copley,  who  had  hardly  missed  a 
single  day  in  his  visits  to  the  carver’s  workshop,  “ if 
this  work  were  in  marble  it  would  make  you  famous  at 
once  ; nay,  I would  almost  affirm  that  it  would  make 
an  era  in  the  art.  It  is  as  ideal  as  an  antique  statue, 
and  yet  as  real  as  any  lovely  woman  whom  one  meets 
at  a fireside  or  in  the  street.  But  I trust  you  do  not 
mean  to  desecrate  this  exquisite  creature  with  paint, 
like  those  staring  kings  and  admirals  yonder?  ” 

“ Not  paint  her ! ” exclaimed  Captain  Hunnewell, 
who  stood  by ; “ not  paint  the  figure  head  of  the  Cyno- 
sure ! And  what  sort  of  a figure  should  I cut  in  a 
foreign  port  with  such  an  unpainted  oaken  stick  as  this 
over  my  prow  ! She  must,  and  she  shall,  be  painted 
to  the  life,  from  the  topmost  flower  in  her  hat  down  to 
the  silver  spangles  on  her  slippers.” 

“ Mr.  Copley,”  said  Drowne,  quietly,  “ I know  noth- 
ing of  marble  statuary,  and  nothing  of  the  sculptor’s 
rules  of  art ; but  of  this  wooden  image,  this  work  of 
my  hands,  this  creature  of  my  heart,”  — and  here  his 
voice  faltered  and  choked  in  a very  singular  manner, — 
u of  this  — of  her  — I may  say  that  I know  something. 


84 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


A wellspring  of  inward  wisdom  gushed  within  me  as 
I wrought  upon  the  oak  with  my  whole  strength,  and 
soul,  and  faith.  Let  others  do  what  they  may  with 
marble,  and  adopt  what  rules  they  choose.  If  I can 
produce  my  desired  effect  by  painted  wood,  those  rules 
are  not  for  me,  and  I have  a right  to  disregard  them.” 

“ The  very  spirit  of  genius,”  muttered  Copley  to  him- 
self. “ How  otherwise  should  this  carver  feel  himself 
entitled  to  transcend  all  rules,  and  make  me  ashamed 
of  quoting  them  ? ” 

He  looked  earnestly  at  Drowne,  and  again  saw  that 
expression  of  human  love  which,  in  a spiritual  sense, 
as  the  artist  could  not  help  imagining,  was  the  secret 
of  the  life  that  had  been  breathed  into  this  block  of 
wood. 

The  carver,  still  in  the  same  secresy  that  marked  all 
his  operations  upon  this  mysterious  image,  proceeded 
to  paint  the  habiliments  in  their  proper  colors,  and  the 
countenance  with  Nature’s  red  and  white.  When  all 
was  finished  he  threw  open  his  workshop,  and  admitted 
the  townspeople  to  behold  what  he  had  done.  Most 
persons,  at  their  first  entrance,  felt  impelled  to  remove 
their  hats,  and  pay  such  reverence  as  was  due  to  the 
richly-dressed  and  beautiful  young  lady  who  seemed  to 
stand  in  a corner  of  the  room,  with  oaken  chips  and 
shavings  scattered  at  her  feet.  Then  came  a sensation 
of  fear  ; as  if,  not  being  actually  human,  yet  so  like 
humanity,  she  must  therefore  be  something  preternat- 
ural. There  was,  in  truth,  an  indefinable  air  and  ex- 
pression that  might  reasonably  induce  the  query,  Whc 
and  from  what  sphere  this  daughter  of  the  oak  should 
be  ? The  strange,  rich  flowers  of  Eden  on  her  head ; the 


drowne’s  wooden  image. 


S5 


complexion,  so  much  deeper  and  more  brilliant  than 
those  of  our  native  beauties ; the  foreign,  as  it  seemed, 
and  fantastic  garb,  yet  not  too  fantastic  to  be  worn  dec- 
orously in  the  street ; the  delicately -wrought  embroi- 
dery of  the  skirt ; the  broad  gold  chain  about  her  neck  ; 
the  curious  ring  upon  her  finger  ; the  fan,  so  exquisitely 
sculptured  in  open  work,  and  painted  to  resemble  pearl 
and  ebony  ; — where  could  Drowne,  in  his  sober  walk 
of  life,  have  beheld  the  vision  here  so  matchlessly  1m- 
bodied  ! And  then  her  face  ! In  the  dark  eyes  and 
around  the  voluptuous  mouth  there  played  a look  made 
up  of  pride,  coquetry,  and  a gleam  of  mirthfulness, 
which  impressed  Copley  with  the  idea  that  the  image 
was  secretly  enjoying  the  perplexing  admiration  of 
himself  and  other  beholders. 

“ And  will  you,”  said  he  to  the  carver,  u permit  this 
masterpiece  to  become  the  figure  head  of  a vessel  ? 
Give  the  honest  captain  yonder  figure  of  Britannia  - — 
it  will  answer  his  purpose  far  better  — and  send  this 
fairy  queen  to  England,  where,  for  aught  I know,  it 
may  bring  you  a thousand  pounds.” 

“ I have  not  wrought  it  for  money,”  said  Drowne. 

u What  sort  of  a fellow  is  this  ! ” thought  Copley. 
“ A Yankee,  and  throw  away  the  chance  of  making  his 
fortune  ! He  has  gone  mad  ; and  thence  has  come  this 
gleam  of  genius.” 

There  was  still  further  proof  of  Drowne’s  lunacy,  if 
credit  were  due  to  the  rumor  that  he  had  been  seen 
kneeling  at  the  feet  of  the  oaken  lady,  and  gazing  with 
a lover’s  passionate  ardor  into  the  face  that  his  own 
hands  had  created.  The  bigots  of  the  day  hinted  that 
it  would  He  no  matter  of  surprise  if  an  evil  spirit  were 


86 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


allowed  to  enter  this  beautiful  form,  and  seduce  the 
carver  to  destruction. 

The  fame  of  the  image  spread  far  and  wide.  The 
Inhabitants  visited  it  so  universally,  that  after  a few 
days  of  exhibition  there  was  hardly  an  old  man  or  a 
child  who  had  not  become  minutely  familiar  with  its  as- 
pect. Even  had  the  story  of  Drowne’s  wooden  image 
ended  here,  its  celebrity  might  have  been  prolonged  for 
many  years  by  the  reminiscences  of  those  who  looked 
upon  it  in  their  childhood,  and  saw  nothing  else  so  beau- 
tiful in  after  life.  But  the  town  was  now  astounded  by 
an  event  the  narrative  of  which  has  formed  itself  into 
one  of  the  most  singular  legends  that  are  yet  to  be  met 
with  in  the  traditionary  chimney  corners  of  the  New 
England  metropolis,  where  old  men  and  women  sit 
dreaming  of  the  past,  and  wag  their  heads  at  the  dream- 
ers of  the  present  and  the  future. 

One  fine  morning,  just  before  the  departure  of  the 
Cynosure  on  her  second  voyage  to  Fayal,  the  com- 
mander of  that  gallant  vessel  was  seen  to  issue  from  his 
residence  in  Hanover  Street.  He  was  stylishly  dressed 
m a blue  broadcloth  coat,  with  gold  lace  at  the  seams 
and  button  holes,  an  embroidered  scarlet  waistcoat,  a 
triangular  hat,  with  a loop  and  broad  binding  of  gold, 
and  wore  a silver-hilted  hanger  at  his  side.  But  the 
good  captain  might  have  been  arrayed  in  the  robes  of 
a prince  or  the  rags  of  a beggar,  without  in  either  case 
attracting  notice,  while  obscured  by  such  a companion 
as  now  leaned  on  his  arm.  The  people  in  the  street 
started,  rubbed  their  eyes,  and  either  leaped  aside  from 
their  path,  or  stood  as  if  transfixed  to  wood  or  marble 
ill  astonishment. 


drowne’s  wooded  .:ta.ge. 


87 


“ Do  you  see  it  ? — do  you  see  it  ? ” cried  one,  with 
iremuious  eagerness.  “ It  is  the  very  same  ! ” 

u The  same  ? ” answered  another,  who  had  arrived 
in  town  only  the  night 'before.  “ Who  do  you  mean  ? 
I see  only  a sea  captain  in  his  shore-going  clothes,  and 
a young  lady  in  a foreign  habit,  with  a bunch  of  beau- 
tiful flowers  in  her  hat.  On  my  word,  she  is  as  fair 
and  bright  a damsel  as  my  eyes  have  looked  on  this 
many  a day  i ” 

u Yes  ; the  same  ! — the  very  same  ! ” repeated  the 
other.  “ Drowne’s  wooden  image  has  come  to  life  ! ” 

Here  was  a miracle  indeed  ! Yet,  illuminated  by  the 
sunshine,  or  darkened  by  the  alternate  shade  of  the 
houses,  and  with  its  garments  fluttering  lightly  in  the 
morning  breeze,  there  passed  the  image  along  the 
street.  It  was  exactly  and  minutely  the  shape,  the  garb, 
and  the  face  which  the  townspeople  had  so  recently 
thronged  to  see  and  admire.  Not  a rich  flower  upon 
her  head,  not  a single  leaf,  but  had  had  its  prototype  in 
Drowne’s  wooden  workmanship,  although  now  their 
fragile  grace  had  become  flexible,  and  was  shaken  by 
every  footstep  that  the  wearer  made.  The  broad  gold 
chain  upon  the  neck  was  identical  with  the  one  repre- 
sented on  the  image,  and  glistened  with  the  motion  im- 
parted by  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  bosom  which  it  deco- 
rated. A real  diamond  sparkled  on  her  finger.  In  her 
right  hand  she  bore  a pearl  and  ebony  fan,  which  she 
flourished  with  a fantastic  and  bewitching  coquetry,  that 
was  likewise  expressed  in  all  her  movements  as  well 
as  in  the  style  of  her  beauty  and  the  attire  that  so  well 
harmonized  with  it.  The  face,  with  its  brilliant  depth 
of  complexion,  had  the  same  piquancy  of  mirthful  mis- 


88 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


chief  that  was  fixed  upon  the  countenance  of  the  image, 
but  which  was  here  varied  and  continually  shifting,  yet 
always  essentially  the  same,  like  the  sunny  gleam  upon 
a bubbling  fountain.  On  the  whole,  there  was  some- 
thing so  airy  and  yet  so  real  in  the  figure,  and  withal 
so  perfectly  did  it  represent  Drowne’s  image,  that  peo- 
ple knew  not  whether  to  suppose  the  magic  wood  ethe- 
realized  into  a spirit  or  warmed  and  softened  into  an 
actual  woman. 

“ One  thing  is  certain,”  muttered  a Puritan  of  the 
old  stamp,  “ Drowne  has  sold  himself  to  the  devil ; 
and  doubtless  this  gay  Captain  Hunnewell  is  a party  to 
the  bargain.” 

“ And  I,”  said  a young  man  who  overheard  him, 
u w^ould  almost  consent  to  be  the  third  victim,  for  the 
liberty  of  saluting  those  lovely  lips.” 

“ And  so  would  I,”  said  Copley,  the  painter, u for  the 
privilege  of  taking  her  picture.” 

The  image,  or  the  apparition,  whichever  it  might  be, 
still  escorted  by  the  bold  captain,  proceeded  from  Han- 
over Street  through  some  of  the  cross  lanes  that  make 
this  portion  of  the  town  so  intricate,  to  Ann  Street,  thence 
into  Dock  Square,  and  so  downward  to  Drowne’s  shop, 
which  stood  just  on  the  water’s  edge.  The  crowd  still 
followed,  gathering  volume  as  it  rolled  along.  Never 
had  a modern  miracle  occurred  in  such  broad  daylight, 
nor  in  the  presence  of  such  a multitude  of  witnesses. 
The  airy  image,  as  if  conscious  that  she  was  the  object 
of  the  murmurs  and  disturbance  that  swelled  behind 
her,  appeared  slightly  vexed  and  flustered,  yet  still  in  a 
manner  consistent  with  the  light  vivacity  and  sportive 
mischief  that  were  written  in  her  countenance  She 


drowne’s  wooden  image. 


89 


was  observed  to  flutter  her  fan  with  sucli  vehement  ra- 
pidity that  the  elaborate  delicacy  of  its  workmanship 
gave  way,  and  it  remained  broken  in  her  hand. 

Arriving  at  Drowne’s  door,  while  the  captain  threw 
it  open,  the  marvellous  apparition  paused  an  instant  on 
the  threshold,  assuming  the  very  attitude  of  the  image, 
and  casting  over  the  crowd  that  glance  of  sunny  co- 
quetry which  all  remembered  on  the  face  of  the  oaken 
lady.  She  and  her  cavalier  then  disappeared. 

“ Ah  ! ” murmured  the  crowd,  drawing  a deep  breath, 
as  with  one  vast  pair  of  lungs. 

“ The  world  looks  darker  now  that  she  has  vanished,” 
said  some  of  the  young  men. 

But  the  aged,  whose  recollections  dated  as  far  back 
as  witch  times,  shook  their  heads,  and  hinted  that  our 
forefathers  would  have  thought  it  a pious  deed  to  burn 
the  daughter  of  the  oak  with  fire. 

“ If  she  be  other  than  a bubble  of  the  elements,” 
exclaimed  Copley, u I must  look  upon  her  face  again.” 

He  accordingly  entered  the  shop  ; and  there,  in  her 
usual  corner,  stood  the  image,  gazing  at  him,  as  it 
might  seem,  with  the  very  same  expression  of  mirthful 
mischief  that  had  been  the  farewell  look  of  the  apparition 
when,  but  a moment  before,  she  turned  her  face  towards 
the  crowd.  The  carver  stood  beside  his  creation  mend- 
ing the  beautiful  fan,  which  by  some  accident  was  bro- 
ken in  her  hand.  But  there  was  no  longer  any  motion 
in  the  lifelike  image,  nor  any  real  woman  in  the  work- 
shop, nor  even  the  witchcraft  of  a sunny  shadow,  that 
might  have  deluded  people’s  eyes  as  it  flitted  along  the 
street.  Captain  Hunnewell,  too,  had  vanished.  His 
hoarse,  sea-breezy  tones,  however,  were  audible  on  the 
other  side  of  a door  that  opened  upon  the  water- 


90 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


44  Sit  down  in  the  stem  sheets,  my  lady,”  said  the 
gallant  captain.  44  Come,  bear  a hand,  you  lubbers,  and 
set  us  on  board  in  the  turning  of  a minute  glass.” 

And  then  was  heard  the  stroke  of  oars. 

44  Drowne,”  said  Copley,  with  a smile  of  intelligence, 
44  you  have  been  a truly  fortunate  man.  What  painter 
or  statuary  ever  had  such  a subject ! No  wonder  that 
she  inspired  a genius  into  you,  and  first  created  the 
artist  who  afterwards  created  her  image.” 

Drowne  looked  at  him  with  a visage  that  bore  the 
traces  of  tears,  but  from  which  the  light  of  imagination 
and  sensibility,  so  recently  illuminating  it,  had  departed. 
He  was  again  the  mechanical  carver  that  he  had  been 
known  to  be  all  his  lifetime. 

44 1 hardly  understand  what  you  mean,  Mr.  Copley,” 
said  he,  putting  his  hand  to  his  brow.  44  This  image  ! 
Can  it  have  been  my  work  ? Well,  I have  wrought  it 
in  a kind  of  dream ; and  now  that  I am  broad  awake 
I must  set  about  finishing  yonder  figure  of  Admiral 
Vernon.” 

And  forthwith  he  employed  himself  on  the  stolid 
countenance  of  one  of  his  wooden  progeny,  and  com- 
pleted it  in  his  own  mechanical  style,  from  which  he 
was  never  known  afterwards  to  deviate.  He  followed 
his  business  industriously  for  many  years,  acquired  a 
competence,  and  in  the  latter  part  of  his  life  attained 
to  a dignified  station  in  the  church,  being  remembered 
in  records  and  traditions  as  Deacon  Drowne,  the  carver. 
One  of  his  productions,  an  Indian  chief,  gilded  all  over, 
stood  during  the  better  part  of  a century  on  the  cupola 
of  the  Province  House,  bedazzling  the  eyes  of  those 
who  looked  upward,  like  an  angel  of  the  sun.  Another 


drowne’s  wooden  image. 


91 


work  of  the  good  deacon’s  hand  — a reduced  likeness 
of  his  friend  Captain  Hunnewell,  holding  a telescope 
and  quadrant — may  be  seen  to  this  day,  at  the  corner 
of  Broad  and  State  Streets,  serving  in  the  useful  capaci- 
ty of  sign  to  the  shop  of  a nautical  instrument  maker. 
We  know  not  how  to  account  for  the  inferiority  of  this 
quaint  old  figure,  as  compared  with  the  recorded  excel- 
lence of  the  Oaken  Lady,  unless  on  the  supposition 
that  in  every  human  spirit  there  is  imagination,  sensi- 
bility, creative  power,  genius,  which,  according  to  cir- 
cumstances, may  either  be  developed  in  this  world,  or 
shrouded  in  a mask  of  dulness  until  another  state  of 
being.  To  our  friend  Drowne  there  came  a brief  sea- 
son of  excitement,  kindled  by  love.  It  rendered  him  a 
genius  for  that  one  occasion,  but,  quenched  in  disap- 
pointment, left  him  again  the  mechanical  carver  in  wood, 
without  the  power  even  of  appreciating  the  work  that 
his  own  hands  had  wrought.  Yet  who  can  doubt  that 
the  very  highest  state  to  which  a human  spirit  can  at- 
tain, in  its  loftiest  aspirations,  is  its  truest  and  most 
natural  state,  and  that  Drowne  was  more  consistent  with 
himself  when  he  wrought  the  admirable  figure  of  the 
mysterious  lady,  than  when  he  perpetrated  a whole 
progeny  of  blockheads  ? 

There  was  a rumor  in  Boston,  about  this  period,  that 
a young  Portuguese  lady  of  rank,  on  some  occasion  of 
political  or  domestic  disquietude,  had  fled  from  her 
home  in  Fayal  and  put  herself  under  the  protection  of 
Captain  Hunnewell,  on  board  of  whose  vessel,  and  a 
whose  residence,  she  was  sheltered  until  a change  oi 
affairs.  This  fair  stranger  must  have  been  the  origina.. 
of  Drowne’s  Wooden  Image. 


THE  INTELLIGENCE  OFFICE. 


A grave  figure,  with  a pair  of  mysterious  spectacles 
on  his  nose  and  a pen  behind  his  ear,  was  seated  at  a 
desk  in  the  corner  of  a metropolitan  office.  The 
apartment  was  fitted  up  with  a counter,  and  furnished 
with  an  oaken  cabinet  and  a chair  or  two,  in  simple  and 
business-like  style.  Around  the  walls  were  stuck  ad- 
vertisements of  articles  lost,  or  articles  wanted,  or  arti- 
cles to  be  disposed  of  ; in  one  or  another  of  which 
classes  were  comprehended  nearly  all  the  conveniences, 
or  otherwise,  that  the  imagination  of  man  has  contrived. 
The  interior  of  the  room  was  thrown  into  shadow,  part- 
ly by  the  tall  edifices  that  rose  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  street,  and  partly  by  the  immense  show  bills  of  blue 
and  crimson  paper  that  were  expanded  over  each  of 
the  three  windows.  Undisturbed  by  the  tramp  of  feet, 
the  rattle  of  wheels,  the  hum  of  voices,  the  shout  of 
the  city  crier,  the  scream  of  the  news  boys,  and  other 
tokens  of  the  multitudinous  life  that  surged  along  in 
front  of  the  office,  the  figure  at  the  desk  pored  diligent- 
ly over  a folio  volume,  of  legerlike  size  and  aspect. 
He  looked  like  the  spirit  of  a record  — the  soul  of  his 
own  great  volume  — made  visible  in  mortal  shape. 

But  scarcely  an  instant  elapsed  without  the  appear- 
ance at  the  door  of  some  individual  from  the  busy  pop 

(92) 


THE  INTELLIGENCE  OFFICE. 


93 


ulation  whose  vicinity  was  manifested  by  so  much  buzz, 
and  clatter,  and  outcry.  Now,  it  was  a thriving  me- 
chanic in  quest  of  a tenement  that  should  come  within 
his  moderate  means  of  rent  ; now,  a ruddy  Irish  girl 
from  the  banks  of  Killarney,  wandering  from  kitchen 
to  kitchen  of  our  land,  while  her  heart  still  hung  in  the 
peat  smoke  of  her  native  cottage  ; now,  a single  gen- 
tleman looking  out  for  economical  board ; and  now  — 
for  this  establishment  offered  an  epitome  of  worldly 
pursuits  — it  was  a faded  beauty  inquiring  for  her  lost 
bloom  ; or  Peter  Schlemihl  for  his  lost  shadow  ; or  an 
author  of  ten  years’  standing  for  his  vanished  reputa- 
tion ; or  a moody  man  for  yesterday’s  sunshine. 

At  the  next  lifting  of  the  latch  there  entered  a per- 
son with  his  hat  awry  upon  his  head,  his  clothes  per- 
versely ill  suited  to  his  form,  his  eyes  staring  in  direc- 
tions opposite  to  their  intelligence,  and  a certain  odd 
unsuitableness  pervading  his  whole  figure.  Wherever 
he  might  chance  to  be,  whether  in  palace  or  cottage, 
church  or  market,  on  land  or  sea,  or,  even  at  his  own 
fireside,  he  must  have  worn  the  characteristic  expres- 
sion of  a man  out  of  his  right  place. 

44  This,”  inquired  he,  putting  his  question  in  the 
form  of  an  assertion,  44  this  is  the  Central  Intelligence 
Office  ? ” 

44  Even  so,”  answered  the  figure  at  the  de^k,  turning 
another  leaf  of  his  volume  ; he  then  looked  the  appli- 
cant in  the  face  and  said  briefly,  44  Your  business  ? ” 

44 1 want,”  said  the  latter,  with  tremulous  earnestness, 
44  a place  ! ” 

44  A place ! and  of  what  nature  ? ” asked  the  Intelli- 
gencer. 44  There  are  many  vacant,  or  soon  to  be  so, 


94 


MOSSES  FEDM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


some  of  which  will  probably  suit,  since  they  range  from 
that  of  a footman  up  to  a seat  at  the  council  board,  or 
in  the  cabinet,  or  a throne,  or  a presidential  chair.” 

The  stranger  stood  pondering  before  the  desk  with 
an  unquiet,  dissatisfied  air  — a dull,  vague  pain  of 
heart,  expressed  by  a slight  contortion  of  the  brow  — 
an  earnestness  of  glance,  that  asked  and  expected,  yet 
continually  wavered,  as  if  distrusting.  In  short,  he 
evidently  wanted,  not  in  a physical  or  intellectual  sense, 
but  with  an  urgent  moral  necessity  that  is  the  hardest 
of  all  things  to  satisfy,  since  it  knows  not  its  own 
object. 

“ Ah,  you  mistake  me  ! ” said  he  at  length,  with  a 
gesture  of  nervous  impatience.  “ Either  of  the  places 
you  mention,  indeed,  might  answer  my  purpose  ; or, 
more  probably,  none  of  them.  I want  my  place  ! my 
own  place  ! my  true  place  in  the  world  ! my  proper 
sphere  ! my  thing  to  do,  which  nature  intended  me 
to  perform  when  she  fashioned  me  thus  awry,  and 
which  I have  vainly  sought  all  my  lifetime  ! Whether 
it  be  a footman’s  duty  or  a king’s  is  of  little  conse- 
quence, so  it  be  naturally  mine.  Can  you  help  me 
here  ? ” 

u I will  enter  your  application,”  answered  the  In- 
telligencer, at  the  same  time  writing  a few  lines  in  his 
volume,  if  But  to  undertake  such  a business,  I tell  you 
frankly,  is  quite  apart  from  the  ground  covered  by  my 
official  duties.  Ask  for  something  specific,  and  it  may 
doubtless  be  negotiated  for  you,  on  your  compliance 
with  the  conditions.  But  were  I to  go  further,  I should 
have  the  whole  population  of  the  city  upon  my  shoul- 
ders ; since  far  the  greater  proportion  of  them  are, 
more  or  less,  in  your  predicament.” 


THE  INTELLIGENCE  OFFICE. 


95 


The  applicant  sank  into  a fit  of  despondency,  and 
passed  out  of  the  door  without  again  lifting  his  eyes  ; 
and,  if  he  died  of  the  disappointment,  he  was  probably 
buried  in  the  wrong  tomb,  inasmuch  as  the  fatality  of 
such  people  never  deserts  them,  and,  whether  alive  or 
dead,  they  are  invariably  out  of  place. 

'S  Almost  immediately  another  foot  was  heard  on  the 
threshold.  A youth  entered  hastily,  and  threw  a glance 
around  the  office  to  ascertain  whether  the  man  of  in- 
telligence was  alone.  He  then  approached  close  to  the 
desk,  blushed  like  a maiden,  and  seemed  at  a loss  how 
to  broach  his  business. 

“ You  come  upon  an  affair  of  the  heart,”  said  the 
official  personage,  looking  into  him  through  his  mysteri- 
ous spectacles.  “ State  it  in  as  few  words  as  may  be.” 
u You  are  right,”  replied  the  youth.  u I have  a 
heart  to  dispose  of.” 

“ You  seek  an  exchange  ? ” said  the  Intelligencer. 
u Foolish  youth,  why  not  be  contented  with  your 
own  ? ” 

'c  Because,”  exclaimed  the  young  man,  losing  his 
embarrassment  in  a passionate  glow,  u because  my 
heart  burns  me  with  an  intolerable  fire  ; it  tortures  me 
all  day  long  with  yearnings  for  I know  not  what,  and 
feverish  throbbings,  and  the  pangs  of  a vague  sorrow  ; 
a,nd  it  awakens  me  in  the  night  time  with  a quake,  when 
there  is  nothing  to  be  feared.  I cannot  endu  e it  any 
longer.  It  were  wiser  to  throw  away  such  a heart, 
even  if  it  brings  me  nothing  in  return.” 

“ O,  very  well,”  said  the  man  of  office,  making  an 
entry  in  his  volume.  u Your  affair  will  be  easily  trans- 
acted This  species  of  brokerage  makes  no  inconsid- 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

erable  Dart  of  my  business  ; and  there  is  always  a large 
assortment  of  the  article  to  select  from.  Here,  if  I 
mistake  not,  comes  a pretty  fair  sample.” 

Even  as  he  spoke  the  door  was  gently  and  slowly 
thrust  ajar,  affording  a glimpse  of  the  slender  figure  of 
a young  girl,  who,  as  she  timidly  entered,  seemed  to 
bring  the  light  and  cheerfulness  of  the  outer  atmosphere 
into  the  somewhat  gloomy  apartment.  We  know  not 
her  errand  there,  nor  can  we  reveal  whether  the  young 
man  gave  up  his  heart  into  her  custody.  If  so,  the 
arrangement  was  neither  better  nor  worse  than  in  nine- 
ty-nine cases  out  of  a hundred,  where  the  parallel  sen- 
sibilities of  a similar  age,  importunate  affections,  and 
the  easy  satisfaction  of  characters  not  deeply  conscious 
of  themselves,  supply  the  place  of  any  profounder  sym- 
pathy. 

Not  always,  however,  was  the  agency  of  the  passions 
and  affections  an  office  of  so  little  trouble.  It  hap- 
pened, rarely,  indeed,  in  proportion  to  the  cases  tha^ 
came  under  an  ordinary  rule,  but  still  it  did  happen  — 
that  a heart  was  occasionally  brought  hither  of  such 
exquisite  material,  so  delicately  attempered,  and  so 
curiously  wrought,  that  no  other  heart  could  be  found 
to  match  it.  It  might  almost  be  considered  a misfor- 
tune, in  a worldly  point  of  view,  to  be  the  possessor  of 
such  a diamond  of  the  purest  water  ; since  in  any  rea- 
sonable probability  it  could  only  be  exchanged  for  an 
ordinary  pebble,  or  a bit  of  cunningly-manufactured 
glass,  or,  at  least,  for  a jewel  of  native  richness,  but 
ill  set,  or  with  some  fatal  flaw,  or  an  earthy  vein  run- 
ning through  its  central  lustre.  To  choose  another 
figure,  it  is  sad  that  hearts  which  have  their  wellspring 


THE  INTELLIGENCE  OFFICE. 


97 


in  the  infinite,  and  contain  inexhaustible  sympathies, 
should  ever  be  doomed  to  pour  themselves  into  shallow 
vessels,  and  thus  lavish  their  rich  affections  on  the 
ground.  Strange  that  the  finer  and  deeper  nature, 
whether  in  man  or  woman,  while  possessed  of  every 
other  delicate  instinct,  should  so  often  lack  that  most 
invaluable  one  of  preserving  itself  from  contamination 
with  what  is  of  a baser  kind  ! Sometimes,  it  is  true, 
the  spiritual  fountain  is  kept  pure  by  a wisdom  within 
itself,  and  sparkles  into  the  light  of  heaven  without  a 
stain  from  the  earthy  strata  through  which  it  had  gushed 
upward.  And  sometimes,  even  here  on  earth,  the  pure 
mingles  with  the  pure,  and  the  inexhaustible  is  recom- 
pensed with  the  infinite.  But  these  miracles,  though 
he  should  claim  the  credit  of  them,  are  far  beyond  the 
scope  of  such  a superficial  agent  in  human  affairs  as 
the  figure  in  the  mysterious  spectacles. 

Again  the  door  was  opened,  admitting  the  bustle  of 
the  city  with  a fresher  reverberation  into  the  Intelli- 
gence Office.  Now  entered  a man  of  wo-begone  and 
downcast  look  ; it  was  such  an  aspect  as  if  he  had  lost 
the  very  soul  out  of  his  body,  and  had  traversed  all  the 
world  over,  searching  in  the  dust  of  the  highways,  and 
along  the  shady  footpaths,  and  beneath  the  leaves  of 
the  forest,  and  among  the  sands  of  the  sea  shore  in 
hopes  to  recover  it  again.  Fie  had  bent  an  anxious 
glance  along  the  pavement  of  the  street  as  he  came 
hitherward  ; he  looked  also  in  the  angle  of  the  door- 
step, and  upon  the  floor  of  the  room  ; and,  finally,  com- 
ing up  to  the  Man  of  Intelligence,  he  gazed  through  the 
inscrutable  spectacles  which  the  latter  wore,  as  if  the 
lost  treasure  might  he  hidden  within  his  eyes. 

VOL.  II.  7 


98 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


“ I have  lost  — ” he  began  ; and  then  he  paused. 

u Yes,”  said  the  Intelligencer,  u I see  that  you  have 
lost  — but  what  ? ” 

“ I have  lost  a precious  jewel ! ” replied  the  unfortu- 
nate person,  “ the  like  of  which  is  not  to  be  found  among 
any  prince’s  treasures.  While  I possessed  it,  the  con- 
templation of  it  was  my  sole  and  sufficient  happiness. 
No  price  should  have  purchased  it  of  me  ; but  it  has 
fallen  from  my  bosom  where  I wore  it  in  my  careless 
wanderings  about  the  city.” 

After  causing  the  stranger  to  describe  the  marks  of 
his  lost  jewel,  the  Intelligencer  opened  a drawer  of  the 
oaken  cabinet  which  has  been  mentioned  as  forming  a 
part  of  the  furniture  of  the  room.  Here  were  deposited 
whatever  articles  had  been  picked  up  in  the  streets, 
until  the  right  owners  should  claim  them.  It  was  a 
strange  and  heterogeneous  collection.  Not  the  least 
remarkable  part  of  it  was  a great  number  of  wedding 
rings,  each  one  of  which  had  been  riveted  upon  the 
finger  with  holy  vows,  and  all  the  mystic  potency  that 
the  most  solemn  rites  could  attain,  but  had,  nevertheless, 
proved  too  slippery  for  the  wearer’s  vigilance.  The 
gold  of  some  was  worn  thin,  betokening  the  attrition  of 
years  of  wedlock  ; others,  glittering  from  the  jeweller’s 
shop,  must  have  been  lost  within  the  honeymoon. 
There  were  ivory  tablets,  the  leaves  scribbled  over 
with  sentiments  that  had  been  the  deepest  truths  of  the 
writer’s  earlier  years,  but  which  were  now  quite  oblit- 
erated from  his  memory.  So  scrupulously  were  arti- 
cles preserved  in  this  depository,  that  not  even  withered 
flowers  were  rejected ; white  roses,  and  blush  roses, 
and  moss  roses,  fit  emblems  of  virgin  purity  and  shame- 


THE  INTELLIGENCE  OFFICE. 


99 


facedness,  which  had  been  lost  or  flung  away,  and 
trampled  into  the  pollution  of  the  streets  ; locks  of  hair 
— the  golden  and  the  glossy  dark  — the  long  tresses 
of  woman  and  the  crisp  curls  of  man,  signified  that 
lovers  were  now  and  then  so  heedless  of  the  faith  en- 
trusted to  them  as  to  drop  its  symbol  from  the  treasure 
place  of  the  bosom.  Many  of  these  things  were  im- 
bued with  perfumes,  and  perhaps  a sweet  scent  had 
departed  from  the  lives  of  their  former  possessors  ever 
since  they  had  so  wilfully  or  negligently  lost  them. 
Here  were  gold  pencil  cases,  little  ruby  hearts  with 
golden  arrows  through  them,  bosom  pins,  pieces  of  coin, 
and  small  articles  of  every  description,  comprising 
nearly  all  that  have  been  lost  since  a long  time  ago. 
Most  of  them,  doubtless,  had  a history  and  a meaning, 
if  there  were  time  to  search  it  out  and  room  to  tell  it. 
Whoever  has  missed  any  thing  valuable,  whether  out 
of  his  heart,  mind,  or  pocket,  would  do  well  to  make 
inquiry  at  the  Central  Intelligence  Office. 

And  in  the  corner  of  one  of  the  drawers  of  the 
oaken  cabinet,  after  considerable  research,  was  found 
a great  pearl,  looking  like  the  soul  of  celestial  purity, 
congealed  and  polished. 

u There  is  my  jewel ! my  very  pearl ! ” cried  the 
stranger,  almost  beside  himself  with  rapture.  u It  is 
mine  ! Give  it  me,  this  moment ! or  I shall  perish  ! ” 

“ I perceive,”  said  the  Man  of  Intelligence,  examin- 
ing it  more  closely,  “ that  this  is  the  Pearl  of  Great 
Price.” 

“ The  very  same,”  answered  the  stranger.  u Judge, 
then,  of  my  misery  at  losing  it  out  of  my  bosom ! Re- 
store it  to  me  ! I must  not  live  without  it  an  instant 

longer.” 


100 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


“ Pardon  me,”  rejoined  the  Intelligencer,  calmly, 
44  You  ask  what  is  beyond  my  duty.  This  pearl,  as  you 
well  know,  is  held  upon  a peculiar  tenure  ; and  having 
once  let  it  escape  from  your  keeping,  you  have  no 
greater  claim  to  it — nay,  not  so  great  — as  any  other 
person.  I cannot  give  it  back.” 

Nor  could  the  entreaties  of  the  miserable  man  — 
who  saw  before  his  eyes  the  jewel  of  his  life  without 
the  power  to  reclaim  it  — soften  the  heart  of  this  stern 
being,  impassive  to  human  sympathy,  though  exercising 
such  an  apparent  influence  over  human  fortunes.  Fi- 
nally the  loser  of  the  inestimable  pearl  clutched  his 
hands  among  his  hair,  and  ran  madly  forth  into  the 
world,  which  was  affrighted  at  his  desperate  looks. 
There  passed  him  on  the  doorstep  a fashionable  young 
gentleman,  whose  business  was  to  inquire  for  a damask 
rosebud,  the  gift  of  his  lady  love,  which  he  had  lost  out 
of  his  button  hole  within  an  hour  after  receiving  it.  So 
various  were  the  errands  of  those  who  visited  this  Cen- 
tral Office,  where  all  human  wishes  seemed  to  be  made 
known,  and  so  far  as  destiny  would  allow,  negotiated  to 
their  fulfilment. 

The  next  that  entered  was  a man  beyond  the  middle 
age,  bearing  the  look  of  one  who  knew  the  world  and 
his  own  course  in  it.  He  had  just  alighted  from  a hand- 
some private  carriage,  which  had  orders  to  wait  in  the 
street  while  its  owner  transacted  his  ousiness.  This 
person  came  up  to  the  desk  with  a quick,  determined 
step,  and  looked  the  Intelligencer  in  the  face  with  a 
resolute  eye  ; though,  at  the  same  time,  some  secret 
trouble  gleamed  from  it  in  red  and  dusky  light. 

1 have  an  estate  to  dispose  of,”  said  he,  with  a 
brevity  that  seeded  characteristic. 


THE  INTELLIGENCE  OFFICE. 


101 


u Describe  it,”  said  the  Intelligencer. 

The  applicant  proceeded  to  give  the  boundaries  of 
his  property,  its  nature,  comprising  tillage,  pasture, 
woodland,  and  pleasure  grounds,  in  ample  circuit ; to- 
gether with  a mansion  house,  in  the  construction  of 
which  it  had  been  his  object  to  realize  a castle  in  the 
air,  hardening  its  shadowy  walls  into  granite,  and  ren- 
dering its  visionary  splendor  perceptible  to  the  awak- 
ened eye.  Judging  from  his  description,  it  was  beauti- 
ful enough  to  vanish  like  a dream,  yet  substantial 
enough  to  endure  for  centuries.  He  spoke,  too.  of  the 
gorgeous  furniture,  the  refinements  of  upholstery,  and 
all  the  luxurious  artifices  that  combined  to  render  this 
a residence  where  life  might  flow  onward  in  a stream 
of  golden  days,  undisturbed  by  the  ruggedness  which 
fate  loves  to  fling  into  it. 

“ I am  a man  of  strong  will,”  said  he,  in  conclusion ; 
u and  at  my  first  setting  out  in  life,  as  a poor,  unfriend- 
ed youth,  I resolved  to  make  myself  the  possessor  of 
such  a mansion  and  estate  as  this,  together  with  the 
abundant  revenue  necessary  to  uphold  it.  I have  suc- 
ceeded to  the  extent  of  my  utmost  wish.  And  this  is 
the  estate  which  I have  now  concluded  to  dispose  of.” 
t;  And  your  terms  ? ” asked  the  Intelligencer,  after 
taking  down  the  particulars  with  which  the  stranger 
had  supplied  him. 

“ Easy,  abundantly  easy  ! ” answered  the  successful 
man,  smiling,  but  with  a stern  and  almost  frightful  con- 
traction of  the  brow,  as  if  to  quell  an  inward  pang.  u 1 
have  been  engaged  in  various  sorts  of  business — a dis- 
tiller, a trader  to  Africa,  an  East  India  merchant,  a 
speculator  in  the  stocks  — and,  jn  the  course  of  these 


102 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


affairs,  have  contracted  an  incumbrance  of  a certain 
nature.  The  purchaser  of  the  estate  shall  merely  be 
required  to  assume  this  burden  to  himself.” 

“ I understand  you,”  said  the  Man  of  Intelligence, 
putting  his  pen  behind  his  ear.  “ I fear  that  no  bargain 
can  be  negotiated  on  these  conditions.  Very  probably 
the  next  possessor  may  acquire  the  estate  with  a simi- 
lar incumbrance,  but  it  will  be  of  his  own  contracting, 
and  will  not  lighten  your  burden  in  the  least.” 

“ And  am  I to  live  on,”  fiercely  exclaimed  the 
stranger,  “ with  the  dirt  of  these  accursed  acres  and 
the  granite  of  this  infernal  mansion  crushing  down  my 
soul  ? How,  if  I should  turn  the  edifice  into  an  alms- 
house or  a hospital,  or  tear  it  down  and  build  a 
church  ? ” 

“ You  can  at  least  make  the  experiment,”  said  the 
Intelligencer  ; “ but  the  whole  matter  is  one  which  you 
must  settle  for  yourself.” 

The  man  of  deplorable  success  withdrew,  and  got  in- 
to his  coach,  which  rattled  off  lightly  over  the  wooden 
pavements,  though  laden  with  the  weight  of  much  land, 
a stately  house,  and  ponderous  heaps  of  gold,  all  com- 
pressed into  an  evil  conscience. 

There  now  appeared  many  applicants  for  places  ; 
among  the  most  noteworthy  of  whom  was  a small, 
smoke-dried  figure,  who  gave  himself  out  to  be  one  of 
the  bad  spirits  that  had  waited  upon  Doctor  Faustus  in 
his  laboratory.  He  pretended  to  show  a certificate  of 
character,  which,  he  averred,  had  been  given  him  by 
that  famous  necromancer,  and  countersigned  by  several 
masters  whom  he  had  subsequently  served. 

“ I am  afraid,  my  good  friend,”  observed  the  Intel- 


THE  INTELLIGENCE  OFFICE. 


103 


ligencer,  “ that  your  chance  of  getting  a service  is  but 
poor.  Nowadays,  men  act  the  evil  spirit  for  them- 
selves and  their  neighbors,  and  play  the  part  more 
effectually  than  ninety-nine  out  of  a hundred  of  your 
fraternity.” 

But,  just  as  the  poor  fiend  was  assuming  a vaporous 
consistency,  being  about  to  vanish  through  the  floor  in 
sad  disappointment  and  chagrin,  the  editor  of  a politi- 
cal newspaper  chanced  to  enter  the  office  in  quest  of  a 
scribbler  of  party  paragraphs.  The  former  servant  of 
Doctor  Faustus,  with  some  misgivings  as  to  his  suffi- 
ciency of  venom,  was  allowed  to  try  his  hand  in  this  ca- 
pacity. Next  appeared,  likewise  seeking  a service,  the 
mysterious  man  in  Red,  who  had  aided  Bonaparte  in 
his  ascent  to  imperial  power.  He  was  examined  as  to 
his  qualifications  by  an  aspiring  politician,  but  finally 
rejected,  as  lacking  familiarity  with  the  cunning  tactics 
of  the  present  day. 

People  continued  to  succeed  each  other  with  as  much 
briskness  as  if  every  body  turned  aside,  out  of  the  roar 
and  tumult  of  the  city,  to  record  here  some  want,  or 
superfluity,  or  desire.  Some  had  goods  or  possessions, 
of  which  they  wished  to  negotiate  the  sale.  A China 
merchant  had  lost  his  health  by  a long  residence  in  that 
wasting  climate.  He  very  liberally  offered  his  disease, 
and  his  wealth  along  with  it,  to  any  physician  who  would 
rid  him  of  both  together.  A soldier  offered  his  wreath 
of  laurels  for  as  good  a leg  as  that  which  it  had  cost 
him  on  the  battle  field.  One  poor  weary  wretch  de- 
sired nothing  but  to  be  accommodated  with  any  credita- 
ble method  of  laying  down  his  life ; for  misfortune  and 
pecuniary  troubles  had  so  subdued  his  spirits  that  he 


104 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


could  no  longer  conceive  the  possibility  of  happiness, 
nor  had  the  heart  to  try  for  it.  Nevertheless,  happen- 
ing to  overhear  some  conversation  in  the  Intelligence 
Office  respecting  wealth  to  be  rapidly  accumulated  by 
a certain  mode  of  speculation,  he  resolved  to  live  out 
this  one  other  experiment  of  better  fortune.  Many  per- 
sons desired  to  exchange  their  youthful  vices  for  others 
better  suited  to  the  gravity  of  advancing  age  ; a few, 
wTe  are  glad  to  say,  made  earnest  efforts  to  exchange 
vice  for  virtue,  and,  hard  as  the  bargain  was,  succeeded 
in  effecting  it.  But  it  was  remarkable  that  what  all 
were  the  least  willing  to  give  up,  even  on  the  most  ad- 
vantageous terms,  were  the  habits,  the  oddities,  the 
characteristic  traits,  the  little  ridiculous  indulgences, 
somewhere  between  faults  and  follies,  of  which  nobody 
but  themselves  could  understand  the  fascination. 

The  great  folio,  in  which  the  Man  of  Intelligence  re- 
corded all  these  freaks  of  idle  hearts,  and  aspirations  of 
deep  hearts,  and  desperate  longings  of  miserable  hearts, 
and  evil  prayers  of  perverted  hearts,  would  be  curious 
reading  were  it  possible  to  obtain  it  for  publication. 
Human  character  in  its  individual  developments  — hu- 
man nature  in  the  mass  — may  best  be  studied  in  its 
wishes  ; and  this  was  the  record  of  them  all.  There 
was  an  endless  diversity  of  mode  and  circumstance,  yet 
withal  such  a similarity  in  the  real  groundwork,  that 
any  one  page  of  the  volume  — whether  written  in  the 
days  before  the  Flood,  or  the  yesterday  that  is  just  gone 
by,  or  to  be  written  on  the  morrow  that  is  close  at  hand, 
or  a thousand  ages  hence  — might  serve  as  a specimen 
of  the  whole.  Not  but  that  there  were  wild  sallies  of 
fantasy  that  could  scarcely  occur  to  more  than  one 


THE  INTELLIGENCE  OFFICE. 


105 


man’s  brain,  whether  reasonable  or  lunatic.  The 
strangest  wishes  — yet  most  incident  to  men  who  had 
gone  deep  into  scientific  pursuits,  and  attained  a high 
intellectual  stage,  though  not  the  loftiest — were,  to 
contend  with  Nature,  and  wrest  from  her  some  secret, 
or  some  power,  which  she  had  seen  fit  to  withhold  from 
mortal  grasp.  She  loves  to  delude  her  aspiring  stu- 
dents, and  mock  them  wUh  mysteries  that  seem  but  just 
beyond  their  utmost  reach.  To  concoct  new  minerals, 
to  produce  new  forms  of  vegetable  life,  to  create  an 
insect,  if  nothing  higher  in  the  living  scale,  is  a sort  of 
wish  that  has  often  revelled  in  the  breast  of  a man  of 
science.  An  astronomer,  who  lived  far  more  among 
the  distant  worlds  of  space  than  in  this  lower  sphere,  re- 
corded a wish  to  behold  the  opposite  side  of  the  moon, 
which,  unless  the  system  of  the  firmament  be  reversed, 
she  can  never  turn  towards  the  earth.  On  the  same 
page  of  the  volume  was  written  the  wish  of  a little 
child  to  have  the  stars  for  playthings. 

The  most  ordinary  wish,  that  was  written  down  with 
wearisome  recurrence,  was  of  course,  for  wealth, 
wealth,  wealth,  in  sums  from  a few  shillings  up  to  un- 
reckonable  thousands.  But  in  reality  this  often-re- 
peated expression  covered  as  many  different  desires. 
Wealth  is  the  golden  essence  of  the  outward  world,  im- 
bodying  almost  every  thing  that  exists  beyond  the  limits 
of  the  soul ; and  therefore  it  is  the  natural  yearning  for 
the  life  in  the  midst  of  which  we  find  ourselves,  and  of 
which  gold  is  the  condition  of  enjoyment,  that  men 
abridge  into  this  general  wish.  Here  and  there,  it  is 
true,  the  volume  testified  to  some  heart  so  perverted  as 
to  desire  gold  for  its  own  sake.  Many  wished  for  power  ; 


106 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


a strange  desire  indeed,  since  it  is  but  another  form 
of  slavery.  Old  people  wished  for  the  delights  of 
youth  ; a fop,  for  a fashionable  coat ; an  idle  reader,  for 
a new  novel ; a versifier,  for  a rhyme  to  some  stubborn 
word ; a painter,  for  Titian’s  secret  of  coloring  ; a 
prince,  for  a cottage  ; a republican,  for  a kingdom  and 
a palace  ; a libertine  for  his  neighbor’s  wife  ; a man  of 
palate,  for  green  peas ; and  a poor  man,  for  a crust  of 
bread.  The  ambitious  desires  of  public  men,  elsewhere 
so  craftily  concealed,  were  here  expressed  openly  and 
boldly,  side  by  side  with  the  unselfish  wishes  of  the 
philanthropist  for  the  welfare  of  the  race,  so  beautiful, 
so  comforting,  in  contrast  with  the  egotism  that  continu- 
ally weighed  self  against  the  world.  Into  the  darker 
secrets  of  the  Book  of  Wishes  we  will  not  penetrate. 

It  would  be  an  instructive  employment  for  a student 
of  mankind,  perusing  this  volume  carefully  and  com- 
paring its  records  with  men’s  perfected  designs,  as 
expressed  in  their  deeds  and  daily  life,  to  ascertain  how 
far  the  one  accorded  with  the  other.  Undoubtedly,  in 
most  cases,  the  correspondence  would  be  found  remote. 
The  holy  and  generous  wish,  that  rises  like  incense 
from  a pure  heart  towards  heaven,  often  lavishes  its 
sweet  perfume  on  the  blast  of  evil  times.  The  foul, 
selfish,  murderous  wish,  that  steams  forth  from  a cor- 
rupted heart,  often  passes  into  the  spiritual  atmosphere 
without  being  concreted  into  an  earthly  deed.  Yet  this 
volume  is  probably  truer,  as  a representation  of  the 
human  heart,  than  is  the  living  drama  of  action  as  it 
evolves  around  us.  There  is  more  of  good  and  more 
of  evil  in  it ; more  redeeming  points  of  the  bad  and 
more  errors  of  the  virtuous ; higher  upsoarings,  and 


THE  INTELLIGENCE  OFFICE. 


107 


baser  degradation  of  the  soul  ; in  short,  a more  perplex- 
ing amalgamation  of  vice  and  virtue  than  we  witness 
in  the  outward  world.  Decency  and  external  con- 
science often  produce  a far  fairer  outside  than  is  war- 
ranted by  the  stains  within.  And  be  it  owned,  on  the 
other  hand,  that  a man  seldom  repeats  to  his  nearest 
friend,  any  more  than  he  realizes  in  act,  the  purest 
wishes,  which,  at  some  blessed  time  or  other,  have 
arisen  from  the  depths  of  his  nature  and  witnessed  for 
him  in  this  volume.  Yet  there  is  enough  on  every  leaf 
to  make  the  good  man  shudder  for  his  own  wild  and 
idle  wishes,  as  well  as  for  the  sinner,  whose  whole  life 
is  the  incarnation  of  a wicked  desire. 

But  again  the  door  is  opened,  and  we  hear  the  tu- 
multuous stir  of  the  world  — a deep  and  awful  sound, 
expressing  in  another  form  some  portion  of  what  is 
written  in  the  volume  that  lies  before  the  Man  of  Intel- 
ligence. A grandfatherly  personage  tottered  hastily 
into  the  office,  with  such  an  earnestness  in  his  infirm 
alacrity  that  his  white  hair  floated  backward  as  he  hur- 
ried up  to  the  desk,  while  his  dim  eyes  caught  a mo- 
mentary lustre  from  his  vehemence  of  purpose.  This 
venerable  figure  explained  that  he  was  in  search  of  To- 
morrow. 

u I have  spent  all  my  life  in  pursuit  of  it,’1  added  the 
sage  old  gentleman,  “ being  assured  that  To-morrow 
has  some  vast  benefit  or  other  in  store  for  me.  But  I 
am  now  getting  a little  in  years,  and  must  make  haste ; 
for,  unless  I overtake  To-morrow  soon,  I begin  to  be 
afraid  it  will  finally  escape  me.” 

“ This  fugitive  To-morrow,  my  venerable  friend,” 
said  the  Man  of  Intelligence,  “ is  a stray  child  of  Time, 


108 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


and  is  flying  from  his  father  into  the  region  of  the  in  • 
finite.  Continue  your  pursuit,  and  you  will  doubtless 
come  up  with  him  ; but  as  to  the  earthly  gifts  which 
you  expect,  he  has  scattered  them  all  among  a throng 
of  Yesterdays.” 

Obliged  to  content  himself  with  this  enigmatical 
response,  the  grandsire  hastened  forth  with  a quick 
clatter  of  his  staff  upon  the  floor ; and,  as  he  disap- 
peared, a little  boy  scampered  through  the  door  in 
chase  of  a butterfly  which  had  got  astray  amid  the 
barren  stmshine  of  the  city.  Had  the  old  gentleman 
been  shrewder,  he  might  have  detected  To-morrow 
under  the  semblance  of  that  gaudy  insect.  The  golden 
butterfly  glistened  through  the  shadowy  apartment,  and 
brushed  its  wings  against  the  Book  of  Wishes,  and 
fluttered  forth  again  with  the  child  still  in  pursuit. 

A man  now  entered,  in  neglected  attire,  with  the 
aspect  of  a thinker,  but  somewhat  too  roughhewn  and 
brawny  for  a scholar.  His  face  was  full  of  sturdy 
vigor,  with  some  finer  and  keener  attribute  beneath. 
Though  harsh  at  first,  it  was  tempered  with  the  glow 
of  a large,  warm  heart,  which  had  force  enough  to 
heat  his  powerful  intellect  through  and  through.  He 
advanced  to  the  Intelligencer  and  looked  at  him  with  a 
glance  of  such  stern  sincerity  that  perhaps  few  secrets 
were  beyond  its  scope. 

“ I seek  for  Truth,”  said  he. 

“ It  is  precisely  the  most  rare  pursuit  that  has  ever 
come  under  my  cognizance,”  replied  the  Intelligencer, 
as  he  made  the  new  inscription  in  his  volume.  “ Most 
men  seek  to  impose  some  cunning  falsehood  upon 
themselves  for  truth.  But  I can  lend  no  help  to  your 


THE  INTELLIGENCE  OFFICE. 


109 


researches.  You  must  achieve  the  miracle  for  your- 
self. At  some  fortunate  moment  you  may  find  Truth 
at  your  side,  or  perhaps  she  may  be  mistily  discerned 
far  in  advance,  or  possibly  behind  you.” 

“ Not  behind  me,”  said  the  seeker ; “ for  I have  left 
nothing  on  my  track  without  a thorough  investigation. 
She  flits  before  me,  passing  now  through  a naked  soli- 
tude, and  now  mingling  with  the  throng  of  a popular 
assembly,  and  now  writing  with  the  pen  of  a French 
philosopher,  and  now  standing  at  the  altar  of  an  old 
cathedral,  in  the  guise  of  a Catholic  priest,  performing 
the  high  mass.  O weary  search ! But  I must  not 
falter  ; and  surely  my  heart-deep  quest  of  Truth  shall 
avail  at  last.” 

He  paused  and  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  Intelligencer 
with  a depth  of  investigation  that  seemed  to  hold  com- 
merce with  the  inner  nature  of  this  being,  wholly  re- 
gardless of  his  external  development. 

“ And  what  are  you  ? ” said  he.  “ It  will  not  satisfy 
me  to  point  to  this  fantastic  show  of  an  Intelligence 
Office  and  this  mockery  of  business.  Tell  me  what  is 
beneath  it,  and  what  your  real  agency  in  life  and  your 
influence  upon  mankind.” 

“ Yours  is  a mind,”  answered  the  Man  of  Intelli- 
gence, “ before  which  the  forms  and  fantasies  that  con- 
ceal the  inner  idea  from  the  multitude  vanish  at  once 
and  leave  the  naked  reality  beneath.  Know,  then,  the 
secret.  My  agency  in  worldly  action,  my  connection 
with  the  press,  and  tumult,  and  intermingling,  and  de- 
velopment of  human  affairs  is  merely  delusive.  The 
desire  of  man’s  heart  does  for  him  whatever  I seem  to 
do.  I am  no  minister  of  action,  but  the  Recording 
Spirit.” 


110 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


What  further  secrets  were  then  spoken  remains  a 
mystery,  inasmuch  as  the  roar  of  the  city,  the  bustle 
of  human  business,  the  outcry  of  the  jostling  masses, 
the  rush  and  tumult  of  man’s  life,  in  its  noisy  and  brief 
career,  arose  so  high  that  it  drowned  the  words  of  these 
two  talkers ; and  whether  they  stood  talking  in  the 
moon,  or  in  Vanity  Fair,  or  in  a city  of  this  actual 
world,  is  more  than  I can  say. 


ROGER  M ALVIN'S  BURIAL. 


One  of  the  few  incidents  of  Indian  warfare  naturally 
susceptible  of  the  moonlight  of  romance  was  that  expe- 
dition undertaken  for  the  defence  of  the  frontiers  in  the 
year  1725,  which  resulted  in  the  well-remembered 
“ Lovell’s  Fight.”  Imagination,  by  casting  certain  cir- 
cumstances judicially  into  the  shade,  may  see  much  to 
admire  in  the  heroism  of  a little  band  who  gave  battle 
to  twice  their  number  in  the  heart  of  the  enemy’s  coun- 
try. The  open  bravery  displayed  by  both  parties  was 
in  accordance  with  civilized  ideas  of  valor;  and  chiv- 
alry itself  might  not  blush  to  record  the  deeds  of  one  or 
two  individuals.  The  battle,  though  so  fatal  to  those 
who  fought,  was  not  unfortunate  in  its  consequences  to 
the  country  ; for  it  broke  the  strength  of  a tribe  and 
conduced  to  the  peace  which  subsisted  during  several 
ensuing  years.  History  and  tradition  are  unusually 
minute  in  their  memorials  of  this  affair  ; and  the  cap- 
tain of  a scouting  party  of  frontier  men  has  acquired 
as  actual  sc  military  renown  as  many  a victorious  leader 
of  thousands.  Some  of  the  incidents  contained  in  the 
following  pages  will  be  recognized,  notwithstanding  the 
substitution  of  fictitious  names,  by  such  as  have  heard, 
from  old  men’s  lips,  the  fate  of  the  few  combatants 

(ill) 


112 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


who  were  in  a condition  to  retreat  after  “ Lovell’s 
Fight.” 

# # # # * 

The  early  sunbeams  hovered  cheerfully  upon  the 
tree  tops,  beneath  which  two  weary  and  wounded  men 
had  stretched  their  limbs  the  night  before.  Their  bed 
of  withered  oak  leaves  was  strewn  upon  the  small  level 
space,  at  the  foot  of  a rock,  situated  near  the  summit 
of  one  of  the  gentle  swells  by  which  the  face  of  the 
country  is  there  diversified.  The  mass  of  granite, 
rearing  its  smooth,  flat  surface  fifteen  or  twenty  feet 
above  their  heads,  was  not  unlike  a gigantic  grave- 
stone, upon  which  the  veins  seemed  to  form  an  inscrip- 
tion in  forgotten  characters.  On  a tract  of  several 
acres  around  this  rock,  oaks  and  other  hard-wood  trees 
had  supplied  the  place  of  the  pines,  which  were  the 
usual  growth  of  the  land  ; and  a young  and  vigorous 
sapling  stood  close  beside  the  travellers. 

The  severe  wound  of  the  elder  man  had  probably 
deprived  him  of  sleep  ; for,  so  soon  as  the  first  ray  of 
sunshine  rested  on  the  top  of  the  highest  tree,  he  reared 
himself  painfully  from  his  recumbent  posture  and  sat 
erect.  The  deep  lines  of  his  countenance  and  the 
scattered  gray  of  his  hair  marked  him  as  past  the 
middle  age  ; but  his  muscular  frame  would,  but  for  the 
effects  of  his  wound,  have  been  as  capable  of  sustain- 
ing fatigue  as  in  the  early  vigor  of  life.  Languor  and 
exhaustion  now  sat  upon  his  haggard  features ; and  the 
despairing  glance  which  he  sent  forward  through  the 
depths  of  the  forest  proved  his  own  conviction  that  his 
pilgrimage  was  at  an  end.  He  next  turned  his  eyes  to 


ROGER  MALVIJN’S  BURIAL. 


113 


the  companion  who  reclined  by  his  side.  The  youth 
— for  he  had  scarcely  attained  the  years  of  manhood  — 
lay,  with  his  head  upon  his  arm,  in  the  embrace  of  an 
unquiet  sleep,  which  a thrill  of  pain  from  his  wounds 
seemed  each  moment  on  the  point  of  breaking.  His 
right  hand  grasped  a musket ; and,  to  judge  from  the 
violent  action  of  his  features,  his  slumbers  were  bring- 
ing back  a vision  of  the  conflict  of  which  he  was  one 
of  the  few  survivors.  A shout — deep  and  loud  in  his 
dreaming  fancy  — found  its  way  in  an  imperfect  mur- 
mur to  his  lips  ; and,  starting  even  at  the  slight  sound 
of  his  own  voice,  he  suddenly  awoke.  The  first  act  of 
reviving  recollection  was  to  make  anxious  inquiries 
respecting  the  condition  of  his  wounded  fellow-travel- 
ler. The  latter  shook  his  head. 

“ Reuben,  my  boy,”  said  he,  “ this  rock  beneath 
which  we  sit  will  serve  for  an  old  hunter’s  gravestone. 
There  is  many  and  many  a long  mile  of  howling  wil- 
derness before  us  yet ; nor  would  it  avail  me  any  thing 
if  the  smoke  of  my  own  chimney  were  but  on  the 
other  side  of  that  swell  of  land.  The  Indian  bullet 
was  deadlier  than  I thought.” 

“ You  are  weary  with  our  three  days’  travel,”  replied 
the  youth,  “ and  a little  longer  rest  will  recruit  you.  Sit 
you  here  while  I search  the  woods  for  the  herbs  and 
roots  that  must  be  our  sustenance;  and,  having  eaten, 
you  shall  lean  on  me,  and  we  will  turn  our  faces  home- 
ward. I doubt  not  that,  with  my  help,  you  can  attain 
to  some  one  of  the  frontier  garrisons.” 

“ There  is  not  two  days’  life  in  me,  Reuben,”  said 
the  other,  calmly,  “ and  I will  no  longer  burden  you 
with  my  useless  body,  when  you  can  scarcely  support 

VOL.  II.  8 


114 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


your  own.  Your  wounds  are  deep  and  your  strength 
is  failing  fast ; yet,  if  you  hasten  onward  alone,  you 
may  be  preserved.  For  me  there  is  no  hope,  and  1 
will  await  death  here.” 

44  If  it  must  be  so,  I will  remain  and  watch  by  you,” 
said  Reuben,  resolutely. 

44  No,  my  son,  no,”  rejoined  his  companion.  44  Let 
the  wish  of  a dying  man  have  weight  with  you ; give 
me  one  grasp  of  your  hand,  and  get  you  hence. 
Think  you  that  my  last  moments  will  be  eased  by  the 
thought  that  I leave  you  to  die  a more  lingering  death  ? 
I have  loved  you  like  a father,  Reuben ; and  at  a time 
like  this  I should  have  something  of  a father’s  author- 
ity. I charge  you  to  be  gone,  that  I may  die  in  peace.” 

44  And  because  you  have  been  a father  to  me,  should 
I therefore  leave  you  to  perish  and  to  lie  unburied  in 
the  wilderness  ? ” exclaimed  the  youth.  44  No  ; if  your 
end  be  in  truth  approaching,  I will  watch  by  you  and 
receive  your  parting  words.  I will  dig  a grave  here  by 
the  rock,  in  which,  if  my  weakness  overcome  me,  we 
will  rest  together ; or,  if  Heaven  gives  me  strength, 
I will  seek  my  way  home.” 

44  In  the  cities  and  wherever  men  dwell,”  replied  the 
other,  44  they  bury  their  dead  in  the  earth  ; they  hide 
them  from  the  sight  of  the  living  ; but  here,  where  no 
step  may  pass  perhaps  for  a hundred  years,  therefore 
should  I not  rest  beneath  the  open  sky,  covered  only  by 
the  oak  leaves  when  the  autumn  winds  shall  strew 
them  ? And  for  a monument,  here  is  this  gray  rock,  on 
which  my  dying  hand  shall  carve  the  name  of  Roger 
Malvin  ; and  the  traveller  in  days  to  come  will  know 
that  here  sleeps  a hunter  and  a warrior.  Tarry  not, 


ROGER  MALVIN’s  BURIAL. 


115 


then,  for  a folly  like  this,  but  hasten  away,  if  not  for 
your  own  sake,  for  hers  who  will  else  be  desolate.” 

Malvin  spoke  the  last  few  words  in  a faltering  voice, 
and  their  effect  upon  his  companion  was  strongly  visi- 
ble. They  reminded  him  that  there  were  other  and 
less  questionable  duties  than  that  of  sharing  the  fate  of 
a man  whom  his  death  could  not  benefit.  Nor  can  it 
be  affirmed  that  no  selfish  feeling  strove  to  enter  Reu- 
ben’s heart,  though  the  consciousness  made  him  more 
earnestly  resist  his  companion’s  entreaties. 

“ How  terrible  to  wait  the  slow  approach  of  death 
in  this  solitude  ! ” exclaimed  he.  “ A brave  man  does 
not  shrink  in  the  battle  ; and,  when  friends  stand  round 
the  bed,  even  women  may  die  composedly ; but 
here ” 

“ I shall  not  shrink  even  here,  Reuben  Bourne,”  in- 
terrupted Malvin.  “ I am  a man  of  no  weak  heart ; 
and,  if  I were,  there  is  a surer  support  than  that  of 
earthly  friends.  You  are  young,  and  life  is  dear  to 
you.  Your  last  moments  will  need  comfort  far  more 
than  mine ; and  when  you  have  laid  me  in  the  earth, 
and  are  alone,  and  night  is  settling  on  the  forest,  you 
will  feel  all  the  bitterness  of  the  death  that  may  now  be 
escaped.  But  I will  urge  no  selfish  motive  to  your  gen- 
erous nature.  Leave  me  for  my  sake,  that,  having 
said  a prayer  for  your  safety,  I may  have  space  to  set- 
tle my  account  undisturbed  by  worldly  sorrows.” 

“ And  your  daughter,  — how  shall  I dare  to  meet 
her  eye  ? ” exclaimed  Reuben.  u She  will  ask  the  fate 
of  her  father,  whose  life  I vowed  to  defend  with  my 
own.  Must  I tell  her  that  he  travelled  three  days’ 
march  with  me  from  the  field  of  battle,  and  that  then  I 


116 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


left  him  to  perish  in  the  wilderness  ? Were  it  not  bet- 
ter to  lie  down  and  die  by  your  side  than  to  return  safe 
and  say  this  to  Dorcas  ? ” 

“ Tell  my  daughter,”  said  Roger  Malvin,  “ that, 
though  yourself  sore  wounded,  and  weak,  and  weary, 
you  led  my  tottering  footsteps  many  a mile,  and  left  me 
only  at  my  earnest  entreaty,  because  I Would  not  have 
your  blood  upon  ray  soul.  Tell  her  that  through  pain 
and  danger  you  were  faithful,  and  that,  if  your  lifeblood 
could  have  saved  me.  it  would  have  flowed  to  its  last 
drop;  and  tell  her  that  you  will  be  something  dearer 
than  a father,  and  that  my  blessing  is  with  you  both, 
and  that  my  dying  eyes  can  see  a long  and  pleasant  path 
in  which  you  will  journey  together.” 

As  Malvin  spoke  he  almost  raised  himself  from  the 
ground,  and  the  energy  of  his  concluding  words  seemed 
to  fill  the  wild  and  lonely  forest  with  a vision  of  hap- 
piness ; but,  when  he  sank  exhausted  upon  his  bed  of 
oak  leaves,  the  light  which  had  kindled  in  Reuben’s  eye 
was  quenched.  Fie  felt  as  if  it  were  both  sin  and  folly* 
to  think  of  happiness  at  such  a moment.  His  compan 
ion  watched  his  changing  countenance,  and  soughi 
with  generous  art  to  wile  him  to  his  own  good. 

“ Perhaps  I deceive  myself  in  regard  to  the  time  I 
have  to  live,”  he  resumed.  “ It  may  be  that,  with 
speedy  assistance,  1 might  recover  of  my  wound.  The 
foremost  fugitives  must,  ere  this,  have  carried  tidings 
of  our  fatal  battle  to  the  frontiers,  and  parties  will  be 
out  to  succor  those  in  like  condition  with  ourselves 
Should  you  meet  one  of  these  and  guide  them  hither 
who  can  tell  but  that  I may  sit  by  my  own  fireside 
again  ? ” 


ROGER  MALYIN’S  BURIAL. 


117 


A mournful  smile  strayed  across  the  features  of  the 
dying  man  as  he  insinuated  that  unfounded  hope ; 
which,  however,  was  not  without  its  effect  on  Reuben. 
No  merely  selfish  motive,  nor  even  the  desolate  condi- 
tion of  Dorcas,  could  have  induced  him  to  desert  his 
companion  at  such  a moment  — but  his  wishes  seized 
upon  the  thought  that  Malvin’s  life  might  be  preserved, 
and  his  sanguine  nature  heightened  almost  to  certainty 
the  remote  possibility  of  procuring  human  aid. 

“ Surely  there  is  reason,  weighty  reason,  to  hope  that 
friends  are  not  far  distant,”  he  said,  half  aloud. 
“There  fled  one  coward,  unwounded,  in  the  beginning 
of  the  fight,  and  most  probably  he  made  good  speed. 
Eveiy  true  man  on  the  frontier  would  shoulder  his  mus- 
ket at  the  news  ; and,  though  no  party  may  range  so 
far  into  the  woods  as  this,  I shall  perhaps  encounter 
them  in  one  day’s  march.  Counsel  me  faithfully,”  he 
added,  turning  to  Malvin,  in  distrust  of  his  own  motives. 
“ Were  your  situation  mine,  would  you  desert  me  while 
life  remained  ? ” 

u It  is  now  twenty  years,”  replied  Roger  Malvin, 
sighing,  however,  as  he  secretly  acknowledged  the  wide 
dissimilarity  between  the  two  cases,  — u it  is  now 
twenty  years  since  I escaped  with  one  dear  friend 
from  Indian  captivity  near  Montreal.  We  journeyed 
many  days  through  the  woods,  till  at  length,  overcome 
with  hunger  and  weariness,  my  friend  lay  down  and 
besought  me  to  leave  him  ; for  he  knew  that,  if  I re- 
mained, we  both  must  perish  ; and,  with  but  little  hope 
of  obtaining  succor,  I heaped  a pillow  of  dry  leaves 
beneath  his  head  and  hastened  on.” 

“ And  did  you  return  in  time  to  save  him  ? ” asked 


118 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


Reuben,  hanging  on  Malvin’s  words  as  if  they  were  to 
be  prophetic  of  his  own  success. 

“ I did,”  answered  the  other.  “ I came  upon  the  camp 
of  a hunting  party  before  sunset  of  the  same  day.  I 
guided  them  to  the  spot  where  my  comrade  was  expect- 
ing death ; and  he  is  now  a hale  and  hearty  man  upon 
his  own  farm,  far  within  the  frontiers,  while  I lie 
wounded  here  in  the  depths  of  the  wilderness.” 

This  example,  powerful  in  effecting  Reuben’s  de- 
cision, was  aided,  unconsciously  to  himself,  by  the  hid- 
den strength  of  many  another  motive.  Roger  Malvin 
perceived  that  the  victory  was  nearly  won. 

w Now,  go,  my  son,  and  Heaven  prosper  you  ! ” he 
said.  u Turn  not  back  with  your  friends  when  you 
meet  them,  lest  your  wounds  and  weariness  overcome 
you ; but  send  hitherward  two  or  three,  that  may  be 
spared,  to  search  for  me  ; and  believe  me,  Reuben, 
my  heart  will  be  lighter  with  every  step  you  take  to- 
wards home.”  Yet  there  was,  perhaps,  a change  both 
in  his  countenance  and  voice  as  he  spoke  thus ; for, 
after  all,  it  was  a ghastly  fate  to  be  left  expiring  in  the 
wilderness. 

Reuben  Bourne,  but  half  convinced  that  he  was 
acting  rightly,  at  length  raised  himself  from  the  ground 
and  prepared  himself  for  his  departure.  And  first, 
though  contrary  to  Malvin’s  wishes,  he  collected  a stock 
of  roots  and  herbs,  which  had  been  their  only  food 
during  the  last  two  days.  This  useless  supply  he 
placed  within  reach  of  the  dying  man,  for  whom,  also, 
he  swept  together  a fresh  bed  of  dry  oak  leaves.  Then 
climbing  to  the  summit  of  the  rock,  which  on  one  side 
was  rough  and  broken,  he  bent  the  oak  sapling  down- 


ROGER  MALVIN’s  BURIAL. 


119 


ward,  and  bound  his  handkerchief  to  the  topmost 
branch.  This  precaution  was  not  unnecessaiy  to  direct 
any  who  might  come  in  search  of  Malvin  ; for  ever}7’ 
part  of  the  rock,  except  its  broad,  smooth  front,  was 
concealed  at  a little  distance  by  the  dense  undergrowth 
of  the  forest.  The  handkerchief  had  been  the  band- 
age of  a wound  upon  Reuben’s  arm ; and,  as  he 
bound  it  to  the  tree,  he  vowed  by  the  blood  that  stained 
it  that  he  would  return,  either  to  save  his  companion’s 
life,  or  to  lay  his  body  in  the  grave.  He  then  descended, 
and  stood,  with  downcast  eyes,  to  receive  Roger  Mal- 
vin’s  parting  words. 

The  experience  of  the  latter  suggested  much  and 
minute  advice  respecting  the  youth’s  journey  through 
the  trackless  forest.  Upon  this  subject  he  spoke  with 
calm  earnestness,  as  if  he  were  sending  Reuben  to  the 
battle  or  the  chase  while  he  himself  remained  secure 
at  home,  and  not  as  if  the  human  countenance  that 
was  about  to  leave  him  were  the  last  he  would  ever  be- 
hold. But  his  firmness  was  shaken  before  he  con- 
cluded. 

“Carry  my  blessing  to  Dorcas,  and  say  that  my  last 
prayer  shall  be  for  her  and  you.  Bid  her  to  have  no 
hard  thoughts  because  you  left  me  here,”  — Reuben’s 
heart  smote  him,  — u for  that  your  life  would  not  have 
weighed  with  you  if  its  sacrifice  could  have  done  me 
good.  She  will  marry  you  after  she  has  mourned  a 
little  while  for  her  father ; and  Heaven  grant  you  long 
and'happy  days,  and  may  your  children’s  children  stand 
round  your  death  bed  ! And,  Reuben,”  added  he,  as 
the  weakness  of  mortality  made  its  way  at  last,  “ re- 
turn, when  your  wounds  a'e  healed  and  your  weariness 


120 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE, 


refreshed,  — return  to  this  wild  rock,  and  lay  my  bones 
in  the  grave,  and  say  a prayer  over  them.” 

An  almost  superstitious  regard,  arising  perhaps  from 
the  customs  of  the  Indians,  whose  war  was  with  the 
dead  as  well  as  the  living,  was  paid  by  the  frontier  in- 
habitants to  the  rites  of  sepulture  ; and  there  are  many 
instances  of  the  sacrifice  of  life  in  the  attempt  to  bury 
those  who  had  fallen  by  the  “ sword  of  the  wilderness.” 
Reuben,  therefore,  felt  the  full  importance  of  the  prom- 
ise which  he  most  solemnly  made  to  return  and  per- 
form Roger  Malvin’s  obsequies.  It  was  remarkable 
that  the  latter,  speaking  his  whole  heart  in  his  parting 
words,  no  longer  endeavored  to  persuade  the  youth  that 
even  the  speediest  succor  might  avail  to  the  preserva- 
tion of  his  life.  Reuben  was  internally  convinced  that 
he  should  see  Malvin’s  living  face  no  more.  His  gen- 
erous nature  would  fain  have  delayed  him,  at  whatever 
risk,  till  the  dying  scene  were  past ; but  the  desire  of 
existence  and  the  hope  of  happiness  had  strengthened 
in  his  heart,  and  he  was  unable  to  resist  them. 

“ It  is  enough,”  said  Roger  Malvin,  having  listened 
to  Reuben’s  promise.  “ Go,  and  God  speed  you  ! ” 
The  youth  pressed  his  hand  in  silence,  turned,  and 
was  departing.  His  slow  and  faltering  steps,  however, 
had  borne  him  but  a little  way  before  Malvin’s  voice 
recalled  him. 

w Reuben,  Reuben,”  said  he,  faintly  ; and  Reuben  re- 
turned and  knelt  down  by  the  dying  man. 

“ Raise  me,  and  let  me  lean  against  the  rock,”  was 
his  last  request.  u My  face  will  be  turned  towards 
home,  and  I shall  see  you  a moment  longer  as  you 
pass  among  the  trees.” 


ROGER  MAL YIN’S  BURIAL. 


121 


Reuben,  having  made  the  desired  alteration  in  his 
companion’s  posture,  again  began  his  solitary  pilgrim- 
age. He  walked  more  hastily  at  first  than  was  consist- 
ent with  his  strength ; for  a sort  of  guilty  feeling, 
which  sometimes  torments  men  in  their  most  justifiable 
acts,  caused  him  to  seek  concealment  from  Malvin’s 
eyes  ; but  after  he  had  trodden  far  upon  the  rustling 
forest  leaves  he  crept  back,  impelled  by  a wild  and 
painful  curiosity,  and,  sheltered  by  the  earthy  roots  of 
an  uptorn  tree,  gazed  earnestly  at  the  desolate  man. 
The  morning  sun  was  unclouded,  and  the  trees  and 
shrubs  imbibed  the  sweet  air  of  the  month  of  May  ; 
yet  there  seemed  a gloom  on  Nature’s  face,  as  if  she 
sympathized  with  mortal  pain  and  sorrow.  Roger 
Malvin’s  hands  were  uplifted  in  a fervent  prayer,  some 
of  the  words  of  which  stole  through  the  stillness  of  the 
woods  and  entered  Reuben’s  heart,  torturing  it  with  an 
unutterable  pang.  They  were  the  broken  accents  of  a 
petition  for  his  own  happiness  and  that  of  Dorcas  ; and, 
as  the  youth  listened,  conscience,  or  something  in  its 
similitude,  pleaded  strongly  with  him  to  return  and  lie 
down  again  by  the  rock.  He  felt  how  hard  was  the 
doom  of  the  kind  and  generous  being  whom  he  had 
deserted  in  his  extremity.  Death  would  come  like  the 
slow  approach  of  a corpse,  stealing  gradually  towards 
him  through  the  forest,  and  showing  its  ghastly  and 
motionless  features  from  behind  a nearer  and  yet  a 
nearer  tree.  But  such  must  have  been  Reuben’s  own 
fate  had  he  ta  rried  another  sunset ; and  who  shall  im- 
pute blame  to  him  if  he  shrink  from  so  useless  a sacri- 
fice ? As  he  gave  a parting  look,  a breeze  waved  the 


122 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


little  banner  upon  the  sapling  oak  and  reminded  Reu- 
ben of  his  vow. 

***** 

Many  circumstances  contributed  to  retard  the  wound- 
ed traveller  in  his  way  to  the  frontiers.  On  the  second 
day  the  clouds,  gathering  densely  over  the  sky,  pre- 
cluded the  possibility  of  regulating  his  course  by  the 
position  of  the  sun ; and  he  knew  not  but  that  every 
effort  of  his  almost  exhausted  strength  was  removing 
him  farther  from  the  home  he  sought.  His  scanty  sus- 
tenance was  supplied  by  the  berries  and  other  sponta- 
neous products  of  the  forest.  Herds  of  deer,  it  is  true, 
sometimes  bounded  past  him,  and  partridges  frequently 
whirred  up  before  his  footsteps  ; but  his  ammunition 
had  been  expended  in  the  fight,  and  he  had  no  means 
of  slaying  them.  His  wounds,  irritated  by  the  constant 
exertion  in  which  lay  the  only  hope  of  life,  wore  away 
his  strength  and  at  intervals  confused  his  reason.  But, 
even  in  the  wanderings  of  intellect,  Reuben’s  young 
heart  clung  strongly  to  existence  ; and  it  was  only 
through  absolute  incapacity  of  motion  that  he  at  last  sank 
down  beneath  a tree,  compelled  there  to  await  death. 

In  this  situation  he  was  discovered  by  a party  who, 
upon  the  first  intelligence  of  the  fight,  had  been  de- 
spatched to  the  relief  of  the  survivors.  They  conveyed 
him  to  the  nearest  settlement,  which  chanced  to  be  that 
of  his  own  residence. 

Dorcas,  in  the  simplicity  of  the  olden  time,  watched  by 
the  bedside  of  her  wounded  lover  and  administered  all 
those  comforts  that  are  in  the  sole  gift  of  woman’s  heart 
and  hand.  During  several  days  Reuben’s  recollection 


ROGER  IVIALVIN’S  BURIAL. 


123 


strayed  drowsily  among  the  perils  and  hardships  through 
which  he  had  passed,  and  he  was  incapable  of  return- 
ing definite  answers  to  the  inquiries  with  which  many 
were  eager  tv.  harass  him.  No  authentic  particulars 
of  the  battle  had  yet  been  circulated  ; nor  could  moth- 
ers, wives,  and  children  tell  whether  their  loved  ones 
were  detained  by  captivity  or  by  the  stronger  chain  of 
death.  Dorcas  nourished  her  apprehensions  in  silence 
till  one  afternoon  when  Reuben  awoke  from  an  unquiet 
sleep  and  seemed  to  recognize  her  more  perfectly  than 
at  any  previous  time.  She  saw  that  his  intellect  had 
become  composed,  and  she  could  no  longer  restrain  her 
filial  anxiety. 

“ My  father,  Reuben  ? ” she  began  ; but  the  change 
in  her  lover’s  countenance  made  her  pause. 

The  youth  shrank  as  if  with  a bitter  pain,  and  the 
blood  gushed  vividly  into  his  wan  and  hollow  cheeks. 
His  first  impulse  was  to  cover  his  face  ; but,  appar- 
ently with  a desperate  effort,  he  half  raised  himself 
and  spoke  vehemently,  defending  himself  against  an  im- 
aginary accusation. 

u Your  father  was  sore  wounded  in  the  battle,  Dor- 
cas ; and  he  bade  me  not  burden  myself  with  him,  but 
only  to  lead  him  to  the  lakeside,  that  he  might  quench 
his  thirst  and  die.  But  I would  not  desert  the  old  man 
in  his  extremity,  and,  though  bleeding  myself,  I sup- 
ported him ; I gave  him  half  my  strength,  and  led  him 
away  with  me.  For  three  days  we  journeyed  on  to- 
gether, and  your  father  was  sustained  beyond  my  hopes  ; 
but,  awaking  at  sunrise  on  the  fourth  day,  I found  him 
faint  and  exhausted ; he  was  unable  to  proceed  ; his 
life  had  ebbed  away  fast ; and ” 


124 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


“ He  died  ! ” exclaimed  Dorcas,  faintly. 

Reuben  felt  it  impossible  to  acknowledge  that  his 
selfish  love  of  life  had  hurried  him  away  before  her 
father’s  fate  was  decided.  He  spoke  not ; he  only 
bowed  his  head  ; and,  between  shame  and  exhaustion, 
sank  back  and  hid  his  face  in  the  pillow.  Dorcas  wept 
when  her  fears  were  thus  confirmed  ; but  the  shock,  as 
it  had  been  long  anticipated,  was  on  that  account  the 
less  violent. 

“ You  dug  a grave  for  my  poor  father  in  the  wilder- 
ness, Reuben  ? ” was  the  question  by  which  her  filial 
piety  manifested  itself. 

“ My  hands  were  weak ; but  I did  what  I could,” 
replied  the  youth  in  a smothered  tone.  “ There  stands 
a noble  tombstone  above  his  head;  and  I would  to 
Heaven  I slept  as  soundly  as  he  ! ” 

Dorcas,  perceiving  the  wildness  of  his  latter  words, 
inquired  no  further  at  the  time  ; but  her  heart  found 
ease  in  the  thought  that  Roger  Malvin  had  not  lacked 
such  funeral  rites  as  it  was  possible  to  bestow.  The 
tale  of  Reuben’s  courage  and  fidelity  lost  nothing  when 
she  communicated  it  to  her  friends  ; and  the  poor 
youth,  tottering  from  his  sick  chamber  to  breathe  the 
sunny  air,  experienced  from  every  tongue  the  miserable 
and  humiliating  torture  of  unmerited  praise.  All  ac- 
knowledged that  he  might  worthily  demand  the  hand  of 
the  fair  maiden  to  whose  father  he  had  been  u faithful 
unto  death  ; ” and,  as  my  tale  is  not  of  love,  it  shall  suf- 
fice to  say  that  in  the  space  of  a few  months  Reuben  be- 
came the  husband  of  Dorcas  Malvin.  During  the  mar- 
riage ceremony  the  bride  was  covered  with  blushes  ; 
but  the  bridegroom’s  face  was  pale. 


ROGER  MALVINAS  BURIAL. 


125 


There  was  now  in  the  breast  of  Reuben  Bourne  an 
incommunicable  thought  — something  which  he  was  to 
conceal  most  heedfully  from  her  whom  lie  most  loved 
and  trusted.  He  regretted,  deeply  and  bitterly,  the 
moral  cowardice  that  had  restrained  his  words  when  he 
was  about  to  disclose  the  truth  to  Dorcas  ; but  pride, 
the  fear  of  losing  her  affection,  the  dread  of  universal 
scorn  forbade  him  to  rectify  this  falsehood.  He  felt 
that  for  leaving  Roger  Malvin  he  deserved  no  censure. 
His  presence,  the  gratuitous  sacrifice  of  his  own  life, 
would  have  added  only  another  and  a needless  agony  to 
the  last  moments  of  the  dying  man ; but  concealment  had 
imparted  to  a justifiable  act  much  of  the  secret  effect 
of  guilt ; and  Reuben,  while  reason  told  him  that  he 
had  done  right,  experienced  in  no  small  degree  the 
mental  horrors  which  punish  the  perpetrator  of  undis- 
covered crime.  By  a certain  association  of  ideas,  he 
at  times  almost  imagined  himself  a murderer.  For 
years,  also,  a thought  would  occasionally  recur,  which, 
though  he  perceived  all  its  folly  and  extravagance,  he 
had  not  power  to  banish  from  his  mind.  It  was  a 
haunting  and  torturing  fancy  that  his  father-in-law  was 
yet  sitting  at  the  foot  of  the  rock,  on  the  withered  for- 
est leaves,  alive,  and  awaiting  his  pledged  assistance. 
These  mental  deceptions,  however,  came  and  went, 
nor  did  he  ever  mistake  them  for  realities  ; but  in  the 
calmest  and  clearest  moods  of  his  mind  he  was  con- 
scious that  he  had  a deep  vow  unredeemed  and  that  an 
unburied  corpse  was  calling  to  him  out  of  the  wilder- 
ness. Yet  such  was  the  consequence  of  his  pievarica- 
tion  that  he  could  not  obey  the  call.  It  was  now  too 
late  to  require  the  assistance  of  Roger  Malvin’s  friends 


126 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


in  performing  his  long-deferred  sepulture  ; and  super- 
stitious fears,  of  which  none  were  more  susceptible 
than  the  people  of  the  outward  settlements,  forbade 
Reuben  to  go  alone.  Neither  did  he  know  where  in 
the  pathless  and  illimitable  forest  to  seek  that  smooth 
and  lettered  rock  at  the  base  of  which  the  body  lay : 
his  remembrance  of  every  portion  of  his  travel  thence 
was  indistinct,  and  the  latter  part  had  left  no  impres- 
sion upon  his  mind.  There  was,  however,  a continual 
impulse,  a voice  audible  only  to  himself,  commanding 
him  to  go  forth  and  redeem  his  vow  ; and  he  had  a 
strange  impression  that,  were  he  to  make  the  trial,  he 
would  be  led  straight  to  Malvin’s  bones.  But  year 
after  year  that  summons,  unheard  but  felt,  was  dis- 
obeyed. His  one  secret  thought  became  like  a chain 
binding  down  his  spirit  and  like  a serpent  gnawing 
into  his  heart ; and  he  was  transformed  into  a sad  and 
downcast  yet  irritable  man. 

In  the  course  of  a few  years  after  their  marriage 
changes  began  to  be  visible  in  the  external  prosperity 
of  Reuben  and  Dorcas.  The  only  riches  of  the  former 
had  been  his  stout  heart  and  strong  arm  ; but  the  lat- 
ter, her  father’s  sole  heiress,  had  made  her  husband 
master  of  a farm,  under  older  cultivation,  larger,  and 
better  stocked  than  most  of  the  frontier  establishments. 
Reuben  Bourne,  however,  was  a neglectful  husband- 
man; and,  while  the  lands  of  the  other  settlers  became 
annually  more  fruitful,  his  deteriorated  in  the  same 
proportion.  The  discouragements  to  agriculture  were 
greatly  lessened  by  the  cessation  of  Indian  war,  during 
which  men  held  the  plough  in  one  hand  and  the  musket 
in  the  other,  and  were  fortunate  if  the  products  of  their 


ROGER  MALVIN’S  BURIAL. 


127 


dangerous  labor  were  not  destroyed,  either  in  the  field 
or  in  the  barn,  by  the  savage  enemy.  But  Reuben  did 
not  profit  by  the  altered  condition  of  the  country  ; nor 
can  it  be  denied  that  his  intervals  of  industrious  atten- 
tion to  his  affairs  were  but  scantily  rewarded  with  suc- 
cess. The  irritability  by  which  he  had  recently  be- 
come distinguished,  was  another  cause  of  his  declining 
prosperity,  as  it  occasioned  frequent  quarrels  in  his  un- 
avoidable intercourse  with  the  neighboring  settlers.  The 
results  of  these  were  innumerable  lawsuits  ; for  the 
people  of  New  England,  in  the  earliest  stages  and 
wildest  circumstances  of  the  country,  adopted,  when- 
ever attainable,  the  legal  mode  of  deciding  their  differ- 
ences. To  be  brief,  the  world  did  not^go  well  with 
Reuben  Bourne;  and,  though  not  till  many  years  after 
his  marriage,  he  was  finally  a ruined  man,  with  but  one 
remaining  expedient  against  the  evil  fate  that  had  pur- 
cued  him.  He  was  to  throw  sunlight  into  some  deep 
recess  of  the  forest,  and  seek  subsistence  from  the  vir- 
gin bosom  of  the  wilderness. 

The  only  child  of  Reuben  and  Dorcas  was  a son, 
now  arrived  at  the  age  of  fifteen  years,  beautiful  in 
youth,  and  giving  promise  of  a glorious  manhood.  He 
was  peculiarly  qualified  for,  and  already  began  to  excel 
in,  the  wild  accomplishments  of  frontier  life.  His  foot 
was  fleet,  his  aim  true,  his  apprehension  quick,  his 
heart  glad  and  high  ; and  all  who  anticipated  the  return 
of  Indian  war  spoke  of  Cyrus  Bourne  as  a future  leader 
in  the  land.  The  boy  was  loved  by  his  father  with  a 
deep  and  silent  strength,  as  if  whatever  was  good  and 
happy  in  his  own  nature  had  been  transferred  to  his 
child,  carrying  his  affections  with  it.  Even  Dorcas, 


128 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


though  loving  and  beloved,  was  far  less  dear  to  him  ; 
for  Reuben’s  secret  thoughts  and  insulated  emotions 
had  gradually  made  him  a selfish  man,  and  he  could 
no  longer  love  deeply  except  where  he  saw  or  im- 
agined some  reflection  or  likeness  of  his  own  mind. 
In  Cyrus  he  recognized  what  he  had  himself  been  in 
other  days ; and  at  intervals  he  seemed  to  partake  of  the 
boy’s  spirit  and  to  be  revived  with  a fresh  and  happy 
life.  Reuben  was  accompanied  by  his  son  in  the  ex- 
pedition, for  the  purpose  of  selecting  a tract  of  land  and 
felling  and  burning  the  timber,  which  necessarily  pre- 
ceded the  removal  of  the  household  gods.  Two  months 
of  autumn  were  thus  occupied  ; after  which  Reuhen 
Bourne  and  his  young  hunter  returned  to  spend  their 
last  winter  in  the  settlements. 

***** 

It  was  early  in  the  month  of  May  that  the  little  fam- 
ily snapped  asunder  whatever  tendrils  of  affections 
had  clung  to  inanimate  objects,  and  bade  farewell  to 
the  few  who,  in  the  blight  of  fortune,  called  themselves 
their  friends.  The  sadness  of  the  parting  moment 
had,  to  each  of  the  pilgrims,  its  peculiar  alleviations. 
Reuben,  a moody  man,  and  misanthropic  because  un- 
happy, strode  onward  with  his  usual  stern  brow  and 
downcast  eye,  feeling  few  regrets  and  disdaining  to  ac- 
knowledge any.  Dorcas,  while  she  wept  abundantly 
over  the  broken  ties  by  which  her  simple  and  affection- 
ate nature  had  bound  itself  to  every  thing,  felt  that  the 
inhabitants  of  her  inmost  heart  moved  on  with  her,  and 
that  a.l  else  would  be  supplied  wherever  she  might  go. 
And  tne  boy  dashed  one  teardrop  from  his  eye,  and 
thought  of  the  adventurous  pleasures  of  the  untrodden 
forest. 


RuGLR  MALVIX’s  BURIAL. 


129 


O,  who,  in  the  enthusiasm  of  a daydream,  has  not 
wished  that  he  were  a wanderer  in  a world  of  summer 
wilderness,  with  one  fair  and  gentle  being  hanging 
lightly  on  his  arm  ? In  youth  his  free  and  exulting 
step  would  know  no  barrier  but  the  rolling  ocean  or  the 
snow-topped  mountains  ; calmer  manhood  would  choose 
a home  where  Nature  had  strewn  a double  wealth  in  the 
vale  of  some  transparent  stream  ; and  when  hoary  age, 
after  long,  long  years  of  that  pure  life,  stole  on  and 
found  him  there,  it  would  find  him  the  father  of  a race, 
the  patriarch  of  a people,  the  founder  of  a mighty  na- 
tion yet  to  be.  When  death,  like  the  sweet  sleep  which 
we  welcome  after  a day  of  happiness,  came  over  him, 
his  far  descendants  would  mourn  over  the  venerated 
dust.  Enveloped  by  tradition  in  mysterious  attributes, 
the  men  of  future  generations  would  call  him  godlike  ; 
and  remote  posterity  would  see  him  standing,  dimly  glo- 
rious, far  up  the  valley  of  a hundred  centuries. 

The  tangled  and  gloomy  forest  through  which  the 
personages  of  my  tale  were  wandering  difFered  widely 
from  the  dreamer’s  land  of  fantasy ; yet  there  was 
something  in  their  way  of  life  that  Nature  asserted  as 
her  own,  and  the  gnawing  cares  which  went  with  them 
from  the  world  were  all  that  now  obstructed  their  hap- 
piness. One  stout  and  shaggy  steed,  the  bearer  of  all 
their  wealth,  did  not  shrink  from  the  added  weight  of 
Dorcas  ; although  her  hardy  breeding  sustained  her, 
during  the  latter  part  of  each  day’s  journey,  by  her 
husband’s  side.  Reuben  and  his  son,  their  musket  on 
their  shoulders  and  their  axes  slung  behind  them,  kept 
an  unwearied  pace,  each  watching  with  a hunter’s  eye 
for  the  game  that  supplied  their  food.  When  hunger 
VOL.  II.  9 


130 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


bade,  they  halted  and  prepared  their  meal  on  the  bank 
of  some  unpolluted  forest  brook,  which,  as  they  knelt 
down  with  thirsty  lips  to  drink,  murmured  a sweet  un- 
willingness, like  a maiden  at  love’s  first  kiss.  They 
slept  beneath  a hut  of  branches,  and  awoke  at  peep  of 
light  refreshed  for  the  toils  of  another  day.  Dorcas 
and  the  boy  went  on  joyously,  and  even  Reuben’s  spirit 
shone  at  intervals  with  an  outward  gladness  ; but  in- 
wardly there  was  a cold,  cold  sorrow,  which  he  com- 
pared to  the  snow  drifts  lying  deep  in  the  glens  and  hol- 
lows of  the  rivulets  while  the  leaves  were  brightly 
green  above. 

Cyrus  Bourne  was  sufficiently  skilled  in  the  travel  of 
the  woods  to  observe  that  his  father  did  not  adhere  to 
the  course  they  had  pursued  in  their  expedition  of  the 
preceding  autumn.  They  were  now  keeping  farther  to 
the  north,  striking  out  more  directly  from  the  settle- 
ments, and  into  a region  of  which  savage  beasts  and 
savage  men  were  as  yet  the  sole  possessors.  The  boy 
sometimes  hinted  his  opinions  upon  the  subject,  and 
Reuben  listened  attentively,  and  once  or  twice  altered 
the  direction  of  their  march  in  accordance  with  his  son’s 
counsel ; but,  having  so  done,  he  seemed  ill  at  ease. 
His  quick  and  wandering  glances  were  sent  forward, 
apparently  in  search  of  enemies  lurking  behind  the  tree 
trunks ; and,  seeing  nothing  there,  he  would  cast  his 
eyes  backwards  as  if  in  fear  of  some  pursuer.  Cyrus, 
perceiving  that  his  father  gradually  resumed  the  old  di- 
rection, forbore  to  interfere  ; nor,  though  something 
began  to  weigh  upon  his  heart,  did  his  adventurous  na- 
ture permit  him  to  regret  the  increased  length  and  the 
mystery  of  their  way. 


ROGER  MALVIN’s  BURIAL. 


131 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  fifth  day  they  halted,  and  made 
their  simple  encampment  nearly  an  hour  before  sunset. 
The  face  of  the  country,  for  the  last  few  miles,  had 
been  diversified  by  swells  of  land  resembling  huge 
waves  of  a petrified  sea  ; and  in  one  of  the  correspond- 
ing hollows,  a wild  and  romantic  spot,  had  the  family 
reared  their  hut  and  kindled  their  fire.  There  is  some- 
thing chilling,  and  yet  heart-warming,  in  the  thought  of 
these  three,  united  by  strong  bands  of  love  and  insu- 
lated from  all  that  breathe  beside.  The  dark  and 
gloomy  pines  looked  down  upon  them,  and,  as  the  wind 
swept  through  their  tops,  a pitying  sound  was  heard  in 
the  forest ; or  did  those  old  trees  groan  in  fear  that  men 
were  come  to  lay  the  axe  to  their  roots  at  last  ? Reu- 
ben and  his  son,  while  Dorcas  made  ready  their  meal, 
proposed  to  wander  out  in  search  of  game,  of  which 
that  day’s  march  had  afforded  no  supply.  The  boy, 
promising  not  to  quit  the  vicinity  of  the  encampment, 
bounded  off  with  a step  as  light  and  elastic  as  that  of 
the  deer  he  hoped  to  slay  ; while  his  father,  feeling  a 
transient  happiness  as  he  gazed  after  him,  was  about  to 
pursue  an  opposite  direction.  Dorcas,  in  the  mean- 
while, had  seated  herself  near  their  fire  of  fallen 
branches,  upon  the  mossgrown  and  mouldering  trunk 
of  a tree  uprooted  years  before.  Her  employment, 
diversified  by  an  occasional  glance  at  the  pot,  now  be- 
ginning to  simmer  over  the  blaze,  was  the  perusal  of 
the  current  year’s  Massachusetts  Almanac,  which,  with 
the  exception  of  an  old  black-letter  Bible,  comprised  all 
the  literary  wealth  of  the  family.  None  pay  a greater 
regard  to  arbitrary  divisions  of  time  than  those  who  are 
excluded  from  society  ; and  Dorcas  mentioned,  as  if  the 


132 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


information  were  of  importance,  that  it  was  now  the 
twelfth  of  May.  Her  husband  started. 

“ The  twelfth  of  May  ! I should  remember  it  well,” 
muttered  he,  while  many  thoughts  occasioned  a mo- 
mentary confusion  in  his  mind.  “ Where  am  I ?, 
Whither  am  I wandering  ? Where  did  I leave  him  ? ” 

Dorcas,  too  well  accustomed  to  her  husband’s  way- 
ward moods  to  note  any  peculiarity  of  demeanor,  now 
laid  aside  the  almanac  and  addressed  him  in  that 
mournful  tone  which  the  tender  hearted  appropriate  to 
griefs  long  cold  and  dead. 

“ It  was  near  this  time  of  the  month,  eighteen  years 
ago,  that  my  poor  father  left  this  world  for  a better. 
He  had  a kind  arm  to  hold  his  head  and  a kind  voice 
to  cheer  him,  Reuben,  in  his  last  moments  ; and  the 
thought  of  the  faithful  care  you  took  of  him  has  com- 
forted me  many  a time  since.  O,  death  would  have 
been  awful  to  a solitary  man  in  a wild  place  like 
this  ! ” 

u Pray  Heaven,  Dorcas,”  said  Reuben,  in  a broken 
voice,  — “ pray  Heaven  that  neither  of  us  three  dies 
solitary  and  lies  unburied  in  this  howling  wilderness  ! 99 
And  he  hastened  away,  leaving  her  to  watch  the  fire 
beneath  the  gloomy  pines. 

Reuben  Bourne’s  rapid  pace  gradually  slackened 
as  the  pang,  unintentionally  inflicted  by  the  words  of 
Dorcas,  became  less  acute.  Many  strange  reflections, 
however,  thronged  upon  him  ; and,  straying  onward 
rather  like  a sleep  walker  than  a hunter,  it  was  attribu- 
table to  no  care  of  his  own  that  his  devious  course  kept 
him  in  the  vicinity  of  the  encampment.  His  steps  were 
imperceptibly  led  almost  in  a circle  ; nor  d'd  he  observe 


roger  m alvin’s  burial. 


133 


that  he  was  on  the  verge  of  a tract  of  land  heavily  lim- 
bered, but  not  with  pine  trees.  The  place  of  the  latter 
was  here  supplied  by  oaks  and  other  of  the  harder 
woods ; and  around  their  roots  clustered  a dense  and 
bushy  undergrowth,  leaving,  however,  barren  spaces 
between  the  trees,  thick  strewn  with  withered  leaves. 
Whenever  the  rustling  of  the  branches  or  the  creaking 
of  the  trunks  made  a sound,  as  if  the  forest  were  waking 
from  slumber,  Reuben  instinctively  raised  the  musket 
that  rested  on  his  arm,  and  cast  a quick,  sharp  glance 
on  every  side  ; but,  convinced  by  a partial  observation 
that  no  animal  was  near,  he  would  again  give  himself 
up  to  his  thoughts.  He  was  musing  on  the  strange  in- 
fluence that  had  led  him  away  from  his  premeditated 
course  and  so  far  into  the  depths  of  the  wilderness. 
Unable  to  penetrate  to  the  secret  place  of  his  soul 
where  his  motives  lay  hidden,  he  believed  that  a super- 
natural voice  had  called  him  onward  and  that  a super- 
natural power  had  obstructed  his  retreat.  He  trusted 
that  it  was  Heaven’s  intent  to  afford  him  an  opportunity 
of  expiating  his  sin  ; he  hoped  that  he  might  find  the 
bones  so  long  unburied  ; and  that,  having  lajd  the  earth 
over  them,  peace  would  throw  its  sunlight  into  the 
sepulchre  of  his  heart.  From  these  thoughts  he  was 
aroused  by  a rustling  in  the  forest  at  some  distance 
from  the  spot  to  which  he  had  wandered.  Perceiving 
the  motion  of  some  object  behind  a thick  veil  of  under- 
growth, he  fired,  with  the  instinct  of  a hunter  and  the 
aim  of  a practised  marksman.  A low  moan,  which  told 
his  success,  and  by  which  even  animals  can  express 
their  dying  agony,  was  unheeded  by  Reuben  Bourne. 
What  were  the  recollections  now  breaking  upon  him? 


134 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


The  thicket  into  which  Reuben  had  fired  was  near  the 
summit  of  a swell  of  land,  and  was  clustered  around  the 
base  of  a rock,  which,  in  the  shape  and  smoothness  of 
one  of  its  surfaces,  was  not  unlike  a gigantic  gravestone. 
As  if  reflected  in  a mirror,  its  likeness  was  in  Reuben’s 
memory.  He  even  recognized  the  veins  which  seemed 
to  form  an  inscription  in  forgotten  characters  : every 
thing  remained  the  same,  except  that  a thick  covert  of 
bushes  shrouded  the  lower  part  of  the  rock,  and  would 
have  hidden  Roger  Malvin  had  he  still  been  sitting  there. 
Yet  in  the  next  moment  Reuben’s  eye  was  caught  by 
another  change  that  time  had  effected  since  he  last 
stood  where  he  was  now  standing  again  behind  the 
earthy  roots  of  the  uptorn  tree.  The  sapling  to  which 
he  had  bound  the  bloodstained  symbol  of  his  vow  had 
increased  and  strengthened  into  an  oak,  far  indeed  from 
its  maturity,  but  with  no  mean  spread  of  shadowy 
branches.  There  was  one  singularity  observable  in 
this  tree  which  made  Reuben  tremble.  The  middle  and 
lower  branches  were  in  luxuriant  life,  and  an  excess  of 
vegetation  had  fringed  the  trunk  almost  to  the  ground  ; 
but  a blight  had  apparently  stricken  the  upper  part  of 
the  oak,  and  the  very  topmost  bough  was  withered,  sap- 
less, and  utterly  dead.  Reuben  remembered  how  the 
little  banner  had  fluttered  on  that  topmost  bough,  when 
it  was  green  and  lovely,  eighteen  years  before.  Whose 
guilt  had  blasted  it  ? 

***** 

Dorcas,  after  the  departure  of  the  two  hunters,  con- 
tinued her  preparations  for  their  evening  repast.  Her 
sylvan  table  was  the  moss-covered  trunk  of  a large  fallen 
tree,  on  the  broadest  part  of  which  she  had  spread  a 


ROGER  MALVIN’S  BURIAL. 


135 


snow-white  cloth  and  arranged  what  were  left  of  the 
bright  pewter  vessels  that  had  been  her  pride  in  the 
settlements.  It  had  a strange  aspect,  that  one  little 
spot  of  homely  comfort  in  the  desolate  heart  of  Nature. 
The  sunshine  yet  lingered  upon  the  higher  branches  of 
the  trees  that  grew  on  rising  ground  ; but  the  shadows 
of  evening  had  deepened  into  the  hollow  where  the  en- 
campment was  made,  and  the  firelight  began  to  redden 
as  it  gleamed  up  the  tall  trunks  of  the  pines  or  hovered 
on  the  dense  and  obscure  mass  of  foliage  that  circled 
round  the  spot.  The  heart  of  Dorcas  was  not  sad  ; for 
she  felt  that  it  was  better  to  journey  in  the  wilderness 
with  two  whom  she  loved  than  to  be  a lonely  woman  in 
a crowd  that  cared  not  for  her.  As  she  busied  herself 
in  arranging  seats  of  mouldering  wood,  covered  with 
leaves,  for  Reuben  and  her  son,  her  voice  danced 
through  the  gloomy  forest  in  the  measure  of  a song 
that  she  had  learned  in  youth.  The  rude  melody,  the 
production  of  a bard  who  won  no  name,  was  descriptive 
of  a winter  evening  in  a frontier  cottage,  when,  secured 
from  savage  inroad  by  the  high-piled  snow  drifts,  the 
family  rejoiced  by  their  own  fireside.  The  whole  song 
possessed  the  nameless  charm  peculiar  to  unborrowod 
thought , but  four  continually-recurring  lines  shone  out 
from  the  rest  like  the  blaze  of  the  hearth  whose  joys 
they  celebrated.  Into  them,  working  magic  with  a few 
simple  words,  the  poet  had  instilled  the  very  essence  of 
domestic  love  and  household  happiness,  and  they  were 
poetry  and  picture  joined  in  one.  As  Dorcas  sang,  the 
walls  of  her  forsaken  home  seemed  to  encircle  her  ; she 
no  longer  saw  the  gloomy  pines,  nor  heard  the  wind, 
which  still,  as  she  began  each  verse,  sent  a heavy  breath 


136 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


through  the  branches  and  died  away  in  a hollow  moan 
from  the  burden  of  the  song.  She  was  aroused  by  the 
report  of  a gun  in  the  vicinity  of  the  encampment ; and 
either  the  sudden  sound  or  her  loneliness  by  the  glow- 
ing fire  caused  her  to  tremble  violently.  The  next 
moment  she  laughed  in  the  pride  of  a mother’s  heart. 

“ My  beautiful  young  hunter ! My  boy  has  slain  a 
deer ! ” she  exclaimed,  recollecting  that  in  the  direc- 
tion whence  the  shot  proceeded  Cyrus  had  gone  to  the 
chase. 

She  waited  a reasonable  time  to  hear  her  son’s  light 
step  bounding  over  the  rustling  leaves  to  tell  of  his  suc- 
cess. But  he  did  not  immediately  appear  ; and  she  sent 
her  cheerful  voice  among  the  trees  in  search  of  him. 

“ Cyrus  ! Cyrus  ! ” 

His  coming  was  still  delayed  ; and  she  determined, 
as  the  report  had  apparently  been  very  near,  to  seek 
for  him  in  person.  Her  assistance,  also,  might  be 
necessary  in  bringing  home  the  venison  which  she 
flattered  herself  he  had  obtained.  She  therefore  set 
forward,  directing  her  steps  by  the  long-past  sound,  and 
singing  as  she  went,  in  order  that  the  boy  might  be 
aware  of  her  approach  and  run  to  meet  her.  From 
behind  the  trunk  of  every  tree  and  from  every  hiding- 
place  in  the  thick  foliage  of  the  undergrowth  she 
hoped  to  discover  the  countenance  of  her  son,  laugh- 
ing with  the  sportive  mischief  that  is  born  of  affection. 
The  sun  was  now  beneath  the  horizon,  and  the  light 
that  came  down  among  the  trees  was  sufficiently  dim 
to  create  many  illusions  in  her  expecting  fancy.  Sev- 
eral times  she  seemed  indistinctly  to  see  his  face  gazing 
out  from  among  the  leaves ; and  once  she  imagined 


ROGER  MALVIN’S  BURIAL. 


137 


that  he  stood  beckoning  to  her  at  the  base  of  a craggy 
rock.  Keeping  her  eyes  on  this  object,  however,  it 
proved  to  be  no  more  than  the  trunk  of  an  oak,  fringed 
to  the  very  ground  with  little  branches,  one  of  which, 
thrust  out  farther  than  the  rest,  was  shaken  by  the 
breeze.  Making  her  way  round  the  foot  of  the  rock, 
she  suddenly  found  herself  close  to  her  husband,  who 
had  approached  in  another  direction.  Leaning  upon 
the  but  of  his  gun,  the  muzzle  of  which  rested  upon 
the  withered  leaves,  he  was  apparently  absorbed  in  the 
contemplation  of  some  object  at  his  feet. 

“ How  is  this,  Reuben  ? Have  you  slain  the  deer 
and  fallen  asleep  over  him  ? ” exclaimed  Dorcas,  laugh- 
ing cheerfully,  on  her  first  slight  observation  of  his 
posture  and  appearance. 

He  stirred  not,  neither  did  he  turn  his  eyes  towards 
her ; and  a cold,  shuddering  fear,  indefinite  in  its 
source  and  object,  began  to  creep  into  her  blood.  She 
now  perceived  that  her  husband’s  face  was  ghastly 
pale,  and  his  features  were  rigid,  as  if  incapable  of 
assuming  any  other  expression  than  the  strong  despair 
which  had  hardened  upon  them.  He  gave  not  the 
slightest  evidence  that  he  was  aware  of  her  approach. 

“ For  the  love  of  Heaven,  Reuben,  speak  to  me ! ” 
cried  Dorcas  ; and  the  strange  sound  of  her  own  voice 
affrighted  her  even  more  than  the  dead  silence. 

Her  husband  started,  stared  into  her  face,  drew  her 
to  the  front  of  the  rock,  and  pointed  with  his  finger. 

O,  there  lay  the  boy,  asleep,  but  dreamless,  upon 
the  fallen  forest  leaves ! His  cheek  rested  upon  his 
arm  — his  curled  locks  were  thrown  back  from  his 
brow  — his  limbs  were  slightly  relaxed.  Had  a sud- 


138 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


den  weariness  overcome  the  youthful  hunter?  Would 
his  mother’s  voice  arouse  him  ? She  knew  that  it  was 
death. 

u This  broad  rock  is  the  gravestone  of  your  near 
kindred,  Dorcas,”  said  her  husband.  “ Your  tears  will 
fall  at  once  over  your  father  and  your  son.” 

She  heard  him  not.  With  one  wild  shriek,  that 
seemed  to  force  its  way  from  the  sufferer’s  inmost  soul, 
she  sank  insensible  by  the  side  of  her  dead  boy.  At 
that  moment  the  withered  topmost  bough  of  the  oak 
loosened  itself  in  the  stilly  air,  and  fell  in  soft,  light 
fragments  upon  the  rock,  upon  the  leaves,  upon  Reu- 
ben, upon  his  wife  and  child,  and  upon  Roger  Malvin’s 
bones.  Then  Reuben’s  heart  was  stricken,  and  the 
tears  gushed  out  like  water  from  a rock.  The  vow 
that  the  wrounded  youth  had  made  the  blighted  man  had 
come  to  redeem.  His  sin  was  expiated  — the  curse 
was  gone  from  him;  and  in  the  hour  when  he  had  shed 
blood  dearer  to  him  than  his  own,  a prayer,  the  first  for 
years,  went  up  to  Heaven  from  the  lips  of  Reuben 
Bourne, 


P.’S  CORRESPONDENCE. 


My  unfortunate  friend  P.  has  lost  the  thread  of  his 
life  by  the  interposition  of  long  intervals  of  partially 
disordered  reason.  The  past  and  present  are  jumbled 
together  in  his  mind  in  a manner  often  productive  of 
curious  results,  and  which  will  be  better  understood 
after  the  perusal  of  the  following  letter  than  from  any 
description  that  I could  give.  The  poor  fellow,  with- 
out once  stirring  from  the  little  whitewashed,  iron- 
grated  room  to  which  he  alludes  in  his  first  paragraph, 
is  nevertheless  a great  traveller,  and  meets  in  his  wan- 
derings a variety  of  personages  who  have  long  ceased 
to  be  visible  to  any  eye  save  his  own.  In  my  opinion, 
all  this  is  not  so  much  a delusion  as  a partly  wilful  and 
partly  involuntary  sport  of  the  imagination,  to  which 
his  disease  has  imparted  such  morbid  energy  that  he 
beholds  these  spectral  scenes  and  characters  with  no 
less  distinctness  than  a play  upon  the  stage,  and  with 
somewhat  more  of  illusive  credence.  Many  of  his 
letters  aue  in  my  possession,  some  based  upon  the 
same  vagary  as  the  present  one,  and  others  upon  hy- 
potheses not  a whit  short  of  it  in  absurdity.  The 
whole  form  a series  of  correspondence,  which,  should 
fate  seasonably  remove  my  poor  friend  from  what  is  to 
him  a world  of  moonshine,  I promise  myself  a pious 

(139) 


140 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


pleasure  in  editing  for  the  public  eye.  P.  had  always 
a hankering  after  literary  reputation,  and  has  made 
more  than  one  unsuccessful  effort  to  achieve  it.  It 
would  not  be  a little  odd  if,  after  missing  his  object 
while  seeking  it  by  the  light  of  reason,  he  should  prove 
to  have  stumbled  upon  it  in  his  misty  excursions  beyond 
the  limits  of  sanity. 


London,  February  29,  184b. 

My  dear  Friend  : Old  associations  cling  to  the 
mind  with  astonishing  tenacity.  Daily  custom  grows 
up  about  us  like  a stone  wall,  and  consolidates  itself 
into  almost  as  material  an  entity  as  mankind’s  strongest 
architecture.  It  is  sometimes  a serious  question  with 
me  whether  ideas  be  not  really  visible  and  tangible 
and  endowed  with  all  the  other  qualities  of  matter. 
Sitting  as  I do  at  this  moment  in  my  hired  apartment, 
writing  beside  the  hearth,  over  which  hangs  a print  of 
Queen  Victoria,  listening  to  the  muffled  roar  of  the 
world’s  metropolis,  and  with  a window  at  but  five  paces 
distant,  through  which,  whenever  I please,  I can  gaze 
out  on  actual  London,  — with  all  this  positive  certainty 
as  to  my  whereabouts,  what  kind  of  notion,  do  you 
think,  is  just  now  perplexing  my  brain  ? Why,  — 
would  you  believe  it  ? — that  all  this  time  I am  still  an 
inhabitant  of  that  wearisome  little  chamber  — that 
whitewashed  little  chamber — that  little  chamber  with  its 
one  small  window,  across  which,  from  some  inscruta- 
ble reason  of  taste  or  convenience,  my  landlord  had 
placed  a row  of  iron  bars  — that  same  little  chamber, 
in  short,  whither  your  kindness  has  so  often  brought 
you  to  visit  me  ! Will  no  length  of  time  or  breadth  of 


P.’s  CORRESPONDENCE. 


141 


space  enfranchise  me  from  that  unlovely  abode  ? I 
travel  ; but  it  seems  to  be  like  the  snail,  with  my  house 
upon  my  head.  Ah,  well ! I am  verging,  I suppose, 
on  that  period  of  life  when  present  scenes  and  events 
make  but  feeble  impressions  in  comparison  with  those 
of  yore ; so  that  I must  reconcile  myself  to  he  more 
and  more  the  prisoner  of  Memory,  who  merely  lets  me 
hop  about  a little  with  her  chain  around  my  leg. 

My  letters  of  introduction  have  been  of  the  utmost 
service,  enabling  me  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  sev- 
eral distinguished  characters  who,  until  now,  have 
seemed  as  remote  from  the  sphere  of  my  personal  in- 
tercourse as  the  wits  of  Queen  Anne’s  time  or  Ben 
Jonson’s  compotators  at  the  Mermaid.  One  of  the 
first  of  which  I availed  myself  was  the  letter  to  Lord 
Byron.  I found  his  lordship  looking  much  older  than 
I had  anticipated,  although,  considering  his  former  ir- 
regularities of  life  and  the  various  wear  and  tear  of 
his  constitution,  not  older  than  a man  on  the  verge  of 
sixty  reasonably  may  look.  But  I had  invested  his 
earthly  frame,  in  my  imagination,  with  the  poet’s  spir- 
itual immortality.  He  wears  a brown  wig,  very  luxu- 
riantly curled,  and  extending  down  over  his  forehead. 
The  expression  of  his  eyes  is  concealed  by  spectacles. 
His  early  tendency  to  obesity  having  increased,  Lord 
Byron  is  now  enormously  fat  — so  fat  as  to  give  the 
impression  of  a person  quite  overladen  with  his  own 
flesh,  and  without  sufficient  vigor  to  diffuse  his  personal 
life  through  the  great  mass  of  corporeal  substance 
which  weighs  upon  him  so  cruelly.  You  gaze  at  the 
mortal  heap  ; and,  while  it  fills  your  eye  with  wha,. 
purports  to  be  Byron,  you  murmur  within  yourself, 


142 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


u For  Heaven’s  sake,  where  is  he  ? ” Were  I disposed 
to  be  caustic,  I might  consider  this  mass  of  earthly 
matter  as  the  symbol,  in  a material  shape,  of  those 
evil  habits  and  carnal  vices  which  unspiritualize  man’s 
nature  and  clog  up  his  avenues  of  communication  with 
the  better  life.  But  this  would  be  too  harsh  ; and,  be- 
sides, Lord  Byron’s  morals  have  been  improving  while 
his  outward  man  has  swollen  to  such  unconscionable 
circumference.  Would  that  he  were  leaner  ; for, 
though  he  did  me  the  honor  to  present  his  hand,  yet  it 
was  so  puffed  out  with  alien  substance  that  I could  not 
feel  as  if  I had  touched  the  hand  that  wrote  Childe 
Harold. 

On  my  entrance  his  lordship  apologized  for  not  rising 
to  receive  me,  on  the  sufficient  plea  that  the  gout  for  sev- 
eral years  past  had  taken  up  its  constant  residence  in 
his  right  foot,  which  accordingly  was  swathed  in  many 
rolls  of  flannel  and  deposited  upon  a cushion.  The 
other  foot  was  hidden  in  the  drapery  of  his  chair.  Do 
you  recollect  whether  Byron’s  right  or  left  foot  was  the 
deformed  one  ? 

The  noble  poet’s  reconciliation  with  Lady  Byron  is 
now,  as  you  are  aware,  of  ten  years’  standing  ; nor  does 
it  exhibit,  I am  assured,  any  symptom  of  breach  or  frac- 
ture. They  are  said  to  be,  if  not  a happy,  at  least  a con- 
tented, or  at  all  events  a quiet  couple,  descending  the 
slope  of  life  with  that  tolerable  degree  of  mutual  sup- 
port which  will  enable  them  to  come  easily  and  com- 
fortably to  the  bottom.  It  is  pleasant  to  reflect  how 
entirely  the  poet  has  redeemed  his  youthful  errors  in 
this  particular.  Her  ladyship’s  influence,  it  rejoices 
me  to  add,  has  been  productive  of  the  happiest  results 


P. S CORRESPONDENCE. 


143 


upon  Lord  Byron  in  a religious  point  of  view.  He  now 
combines  the  most  rigid  tenets  of  Methodism  with  the 
ultra  doctrines  of  the  Puseyites  ; the  former  being  per- 
haps due  to  the  convictions  wrought  upon  his  mind  by 
his  noble  consort,  while  the  latter  are  the  embroidery 
and  picturesque  illumination  demanded  by  his  imagi- 
native character.  Much  of  whatever  expenditure  his 
increasing  habits  of  thrift  continue  to  allow  him  is  be- 
stowed in  the  reparation  or  beautifying  of  places  of 
worship  ; and  this  nobleman,  whose  name  was  once 
considered  a synonyme  of  the  foul  fiend,  is  now  all  but 
canonized  as  a saint  in  many  pulpits  of  the  metropolis 
and  elsewhere.  In  politics,  Lord  Byron  is  an  uncom- 
promising conservative,  and  loses  no  opportunity,  wheth- 
er in  the  House  of  Lords  or  in  private  circles,  of  de- 
nouncing and  repudiating  the  mischievous  and  anar- 
chical notions  of  his  earlier  day.  Nor  does  he  fail  to 
visit  similar  sins  in  other  people  with  the  sincerest 
vengeance  which  his  somewhat  blunted  pen  is  capable 
of  inflicting.  Southey  and  he  are  on  the  most  intimate 
terms.  You  are  aware  that,  some  little  time  before  the 
death  of  Moore,  Byron  caused  that  brilliant  but  repre- 
hensible man  to  be  ejected  from  his  house.  Moore  took 
the  insult  so  much  to  heart  that  it  is  said  to  have  been 
one  great  cause  of  the  fit  of  illness  which  brought  him 
to  the  grave.  Others  pretend  that  the  lyrist  died  in  a 
very  happy  state  of  mind,  singing  one  of  his  own  sa- 
cred melodies,  and  expressing  his  belief  that  it  would 
be  heard  within  the  gate  of  paradise,  and  gain  him  in- 
stant and  honorable  admittance.  I wish  he  may  have 
found  it  so. 

I failed  not,  as  you  may  suppose,  in  the  course  of 


144 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


conversation  with  Lord  Byron,  to  pay  the  meed  of  hom- 
age due  to  a mighty  poet,  by  allusions  to  passages  in 
Childe  Harold,  and  Manfred,  and  Don  Juan  which  have 
made  so  large  a portion  of  the  music  of  my  life.  My 
words,  whether  apt  or  otherwise,  were  at  least  warm 
with  the  enthusiasm  of  one  worthy  to  discourse  of  im- 
mortal poesy.  It  was  evident,  however,  that  they  did 
not  go  precisely  to  the  right  spot.  I could  perceive 
that  there  was  some  mistake  or  other,  and  was  not  a 
little  angry  with  myself,  and  ashamed  of  my  abortive 
attempt  to  throw  back,  from  my  own  heart  to  the  gifted 
author’s  ear,  the  echo  of  those  strains  that  have  resound- 
ed throughout  the  world.  But  by  and  by  the  secret 
peeped  quietly  out.  Byron,  — I have  the  information 
from  his  own  lips,  so  that  you  need  not  hesitate  to  repeat 
it  in  literary  circles,  — Byron  is  preparing  a new  edition 
of  his  complete  works,  carefully  corrected,  expurgated, 
and  amended,  in  accordance  with  his  present  creed  of 
taste,  morals,  politics,  and  religion.  It  so  happened  that 
the  very  passages  of  highest  inspiration  to  which  I had 
alluded  were  among  the  condemned  and  rejected  rub- 
bish which  it  is  his  purpose  to  cast  into  the  gulf  of 
oblivion.  To  whisper  you*  the  truth,  it  appears  to  me 
that  his  passions  having  burned  out,  the  extinction  of 
their  vivid  and  riotous  flame  has  deprived  Lord  Byron 
of  the  illumination  by  which  he  not  merely  wrote,  but 
was  enabled  to  feel  and  comprehend  what  he  had  writ- 
ten. Positively  he  no  longer  understands  his  own  poetry. 

This  became  very  apparent  on  his  favoring  me  so  far 
as  to  read  a few  specimens  of  Don  Juan  in  the  moral- 
ized version.  Whatever  is  licentious,  whatever  dis- 
respectful to  the  sacred,  mysteries  of  our  faith,  what- 


P.’s  CORRESPONDENCE. 


145 


ever  morbidly  melancholic  or  splenetically  sportive, 
whatever  assails  settled  constitutions  of  government  or 
systems  of  society,  whatever  could  wound  the  sensi- 
bility of  any  mortal,  except  a pagan,  a republican,  or  a 
dissenter,  has  been  unrelentingly  blotted  out,  and  its 
place  supplied  by  unexceptionable  verses  in  his  lord- 
ship’s later  style.  You  may  judge  how  much  o*f  the 
poem  remains  as  hitherto  published.  The  result  is  not 
so  good  as  might  be  wished  ; in  plain  terms,  it  is  a very 
sad  affair  indeed  ; for,  though  the  torches  kindled  in 
Tophet  have  been  extinguished,  they  leave  an  abomi- 
nably ill  odor,  and  are  succeeded  by  no  glimpses  of 
hallowed  fire.  It  is  to  be  hoped,  nevertheless,  that  this 
attempt  on  Lord  Byron’s  part  to  atone  for  his  youthful 
errors  will  at  length  induce  the  Dean  of  Westminster, 
or  whatever  churchman  is  concerned,  to  allow  Thor- 
waldsen’s  statue  of  the  poet  its  due  niche  in  the  grand 
old  Abbey.  His  bones,  you  know,  when  brought  from 
Greece,  were  denied  sepulture  among  those  of  his  tune- 
ful brethren  there. 

What  a vile  slip  of  the  pen  was  that ! How  absurd 
in  me  to  talk  about  burying  the  bones  of  Byron,  whom 
I have  just  seen  alive,  and  incased  in  a big,  round  bulk 
of  flesh  ! But,  to  say  the  truth,  a prodigiously  fat  man 
always  impresses  me  as  a kind  of  hobgoblin  ; in  the 
very  extravagance  of  his  mortal  system  I find  some- 
thing akin  to  the  immateriality  of  a ghost.  And  then 
that  ridiculous  old  story  darted  into  my  mind,  how  that 
Byron  died  of  fever  at  Missolonghi,  above  twenty  years 
ago.  More  and  more  I recognize  that  we  dwell  in  a 
world  of  shadows  ; and,  for  my  part,  I hold  it  hardly 
worth  the  trouble  to  attempt  a distinction  between  shad- 
VOL.  II.  10 


146 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


ows  in  the  mind  and  shadows  out  of  it.  If  there  be  any 
difference,  the  former  are  rather  the  more  substantial. 

Only  think  of  my  good  fortune ! The  venerable 
Robert  Burns  — now,  if  I mistake  not,  in  his  eighty- 
seventh  year  — happens  to  be  making  a visit  to  London, 
as  if  on  purpose  to  afford  me  an  opportunity  of  grasp- 
ing him  by  the  hand.  For  upwards  of  twenty  years 
past  he  has  hardly  left  his  quiet  cottage  in  Ayrshire  for 
a single  night,  and  has  only  been  drawn  hither  now  by 
the  irresistible  persuasions  of  all  the  distinguished  men 
in  England.  They  wish  to  celebrate  the  patriarch’s 
birthday  by  a festival.  It  will  be  the  greatest  literary 
triumph  on  record.  Pray  Heaven  the  little  spirit  of 
life  within  the  aged  bard’s  bosom  may  not  be  extin- 
guished in  the  lustre  of  that  hour  ! I have  already  had 
the  honor  of  an  introduction  to  him  at  the  British  Mu- 
seum, where  he  was  examining  a collection  of  his  own 
unpublished  letters,  interspersed  with  songs,  which  have 
escaped  the  notice  of  all  his  biographers. 

Poh!  Nonsense!  What  am  I thinking  of ? How 
should  Burns  have  been  embalmed  in  biography  when 
he  is  still  a hearty  old  man  ? 

The  figure  of  the  bard  is  tall  and  in  the  highest  de- 
gree reverend,  nor  the  less  so  that  it  is  much  bent  by 
the  burden  of  time.  His  white  hair  floats  like  a snow 
drift  around  his  face,  in  which  are  seen  the  furrows  of 
intellect  and  passion,  like  the  channels  of  headlong  tor- 
rents that  have  foamed  themseves  away.  The  old 
gentleman  is  in  excellent  preservation  considering  his 
time  of  life.  He  has  that  crickety  sort  of  liveliness  — 
I moan  the  cricket’s  humor  of  chirping  for  any  cause 
or  none  — which  is  perhaps  the  most  favorable  mood 


P.’s  CORRESPONDENCE. 


147 


that  can  befall  extreme  old  age.  Our  pride  forbids  us 
to  desire  it  for  ourselves,  although  we  perceive  it  to  be 
a beneficence  of  nature  in  the  case  of  gthers.  I was 
surprised  to  find  it  in  Burns.  It  seems  as  if  his  ardent 
heart  and  brilliant  imagination  had  both  burned  down  to 
the  last  embers,  leaving  only  a little  flickering  flame  in 
one  corner,  which  keeps  dancing  upward  and  laughing 
all  by  itself.  He  is  no  longer  capable  of  pathos.  At 
the  request  of  Allan  Cunningham,  he  attempted  to  sing 
his  own  song  to  Mary  in  Heaven  ; but  it  was  evident 
that  the  feeling  of  those  verses,  so  profoundly  true  and 
so  simply  expressed,  was  entirely  beyond  the  scope  of 
his  present  sensibilities  ; and,  when  a touch  of  it  did 
partially  awaken  him,  the  tears  immediately  gushed  into 
his  eyes  and  his  voice  broke  into  a tremulous  cackle. 
And  yet  he  but  indistinctly  knew  wherefore  he  was 
weeping.  Ah,  he  must  not  think  again  of  Mary  in 
Heaven  until  he  shake  off  the  dull  impediment  of  time 
and  ascend  to  meet  her  there. 

Burns  then  began  to  repeat  Tam  O’Shanter;  but  was 
so  tickled  with  its  wit  and  humor  — of  which,  however, 
I suspect  he  had  but  a traditionary  sense  — that  he  soon 
burst  into  a fit  of  chirruping  laughter,  succeeded  by  a 
cough,  which  brought  this  not  very  agreeable  exhibition 
to  a close.  On  the  whole,  I would  rather  not  have  wit- 
nessed it.  It  is  a satisfactory  idea,  however,  that  the 
last  forty  years  of  the  peasant  poet’s  life  have  been 
passed  in  competence  and  perfect  comfort.  Having 
been  cured  of  his  bardic  improvidence  for  many  a day 
past,  and  grown  as  attentive  to  the  main  chance  as  a 
canny  Scotsman  should  be,  he  is  now  cons  dered  to  be 
quite  well  off  as  to  pecuniary  circumstances  This,  I 
suppose,  is  worth  having  lived  so  long  for. 


148 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


I took  occasion  to  inquire  of  some  of  the  countrymen 
of  Burns  in  regard  to  the  health  of  Sir  Walter  Scott. 
His  condition,  I am  sorry  to  say,  remains  the  same  as 
for  ten  years  past ; it  is  that  of  a hopeless  paralytic, 
palsied  not  more  in  body  than  in  those  nobler  attributes 
of  which  the  body  is  the  instrument.  And  thus  he  vege- 
tates from  day  to  day  and  from  year  to  year  at  that 
splendid  fantasy  of  Abbotsford,  which  grew  out  of  his 
bj-ain,  and  became  a symbol  of  the  great  romancer’s 
tastes,  feelings,  studies,  prejudices,  and  modes  of  in- 
tellect. Whether  in  verse,  prose,  or  architecture,  he 
could  achieve  but  one  thing,  although  that  one  in  infinite 
variety.  There  he  reclines,  on  a couch  in  his  library, 
and  is  said  to  spend  whole  hours  of  every  day  in  dic- 
tating tales  to  an  amanuensis  — to  an  imaginary  aman- 
uensis ; for  it  is  not  deemed  worth  any  one’s  trouble 
now  to  take  down  what  flows  from  that  once  brilliant 
fancy,  every  image  of  which  was  formerly  worth  gold 
and  capable  of  being  coined.  Yet  Cunningham,  who 
has  lately  seen  him,  assures  me  that  there  is  now  and 
then  a touch  of  the  genius  — a striking  combination  of 
incident,  or  a picturesque  trait  of  character,  such  as  no 
other  man  alive  could  have  hit  off  — a glimmer  from 
that  ruined  mind,  as  if  the  sun  had  suddenly  flashed  on 
a half-rusted  helmet  in  the  gloom  of  an  ancient  hall. 
But  the  plots  of  these  romances  become  inextricably 
confused ; the  characters  melt  into  one  another ; and 
the  tale  loses  itself  like  the  course  of  a stream  flowing 
through  muddy  and  marshy  ground. 

For  my  part,  I can  hardly  regret  that  Sir  Walter 
Scott  had  lost  his  consciousness  of  outward  things  be- 
fore his  works  went  out  of  vogue.  It  was  good  that  he 


P.’s  CORRESPONDENCE 


119 


shoulJ  forgei  his  fame  rather  than  that  fame  should 
first  have  forgotten  him.  Were  he  still  a writer,  and 
as  brilliant  a one  as  ever,  he  could  no  longer  maintain 
any  thing  like  the  same  position  in  literature.  The 
world,  nowadays,  requires  a more  earnest  purpose,  a 
deeper  moral,  and  a closer  and  homelier  truth  than  he 
was  qualified  to  supply  it  with.  Yet  who  can  be  to  the 
present  generation  even  what  Scott  has  been  to  the  past  ? 
I had  expectations  from  a young  man  — one  Dickens 
— who  published  a few  magazine  articles,  very  rich  in 
humor,  and  not  without  symptoms  of  genuine  pathos  ; 
but  the  poor  fellow  died  shortly  after  commencing  an 
odd  series  of  sketches,  entitled,  I think,  the  Pickwick 
Papers.  Not  impossibly  the  world  has  lost  more  than  it 
dreams  of  by  the  untimely  death  of  this  Mr.  Dickens. 

Whom  do  you  think  I met  in  Pall  Mall  the  other  day  ? 
You  would  not  hit  it  in  ten  guesses.  Why,  no  less  a 
man  than  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  or  all  that  is  now 
left  of  him  — that  is  to  say,  the  skin,  bones,  and  cor- 
poreal substance,  little  cocked  hat,  green  coat,  white 
breeches,  and  small  sword,  which  are  still  known  by  his 
redoubtable  name.  He  was  attended  only  by  two  po- 
licemen, who  walked  quietly  behind  the  phantasm  of 
the  old  ex-emperor,  appearing  to  have  no  duty  in  re- 
gard to  him  except  to  see  that  none  of  the  light-fingered 
gentry  should  possess  themselves  of  the  star  of  the 
Legion  of  Honor.  Nobody  save  myself  so  much  as 
turned  to  look  after  him ; nor,  it  grieves  me  to  confess, 
could  even  I contrive  to  muster  up  any  tolerable  inter- 
est, even  by  all  that  the  warlike  spirit,  formerly  mani- 
fested within  that  now  decrepit  shape,  had  wrought  upon 
our  globe.  There  is  no  surer  method  of  annihilating 


150 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


the  magic  influence  of  a great  renown  than  by  exhib- 
iting the  possessor  of  it  in  the  decline,  the  overthrow, 
the  utter  degradation  of  his  powers, — buried  beneath 
his  own  mortality,  — and  lacking  even  the  qualities  of 
sense  that  enable  the  most  ordinary  men  to  bear  them- 
selves decently  in  the  eye  of  the  world.  This  is  the 
state  to  which  disease,  aggravated  by  long  endurance 
of  a tropical  climate,  and  assisted  by  old  age, — for  he 
is  now  above  seventy,  — has  reduced  Bonaparte.  The 
British  government  has  acted  shrewdly  in  retransport- 
ing him  from  St.  Helena  to  England.  They  should 
now  restore  him  to  Paris,  and  there  let  him  once  again 
review  the  relics  of  his  armies.  His  eye  is  dull  and 
rheumy ; his  nether  lip  hung  down  upon  his  chin. 
While  I was  observing  him  there  chanced  to  be  a little 
extra  bustle  in  the  street ; and  he,  the  brother  of  Caesar 
and  Hannibal,  — the  great  captain  who  had  veiled  the 
world  in  battle  smoke  and  tracked  it  round  with  bloody 
footsteps,  — was  seized  with  a nervous  trembling,  and 
claimed  the  protection  of  the  two  policemen  by  a 
cracked  and  dolorous  cry.  The  fellows  winked  at  one 
another,  laughed  aside,  and,  patting  Napoleon  on  the 
back,  took  each  an  arm  and  led  him  away. 

Death  and  fury  ! Ha,  villain,  how  came  you  hither  ? 
Avaunt ! or  I fling  my  inkstand  at  your  head.  Tush, 
tush  ; it  is  all  a mistake.  Pray,  my  dear  friend,  pardon 
this  little  outbreak.  The  fact  is,  the  mention  of  those 
two  policemen,  and  their  custody  of  Bonaparte,  had 
called  up  the  idea  of  that  odious  wretch  — you  remem- 
ber him  well  — who  was  pleased  to  take  such  gratuitous 
and  impertinent  care  of  my  person  before  I quitted 
New  England.  Forthwith  up  rose  before  my  mind’s 


T.’S  CORRESPONDENCE. 


151 


eye  that  same  little  whitewashed  room,  with  the  iron- 
grated  window,  — strange  that  it  should  have  been  iron 
grated ! — where,  in  too  easy  compliance  with  the  absurd 
wishes  of  my  relatives,  I have  wasted  several  good 
years  of  my  life.  Positively  it  seemed  to  me  that  I 
was  still  sitting  there,  and  that  the  keeper — not  that  he 
ever  was  my  keeper  neither,  but  only  a kind  of  intru- 
sive devil  of  a body  servant  — had  just  peeped  in  at 
the  door.  The  rascal ! I owe  him  an  old  grudge,  and 
will  find  a time  to  pay  it  yet.  Fie  ! fie  ! The  mere 
thought  of  him  has  exceedingly  discomposed  me.  Even 
now  that  hateful  chamber — the  iron-grated  window, 
which  blasted  the  blessed  sunshine  as  it  fell  through  the 
dusty  panes  and  made  it  poison  to  my  soul  — looks 
more  distinct  to  my  view  than  does  this  my  comforta- 
ble apartment  in  the  heart  of  London.  The  reality  — 
that  which  I know  to  be  such  — hangs  like  remnants 
of  tattered  scenery  over  the  intolerably  prominent  illu- 
sion. Let  us  think  of  it  no  more. 

You  will  be  anxious  to  hear  of  Shelley.  I need  not 
say,  what  is  known  to  all  the  world,  that  this  celebrated 
poet  has  for  many  years  past  been  reconciled  to  the 
church  of  England.  In  his  more  recent  works  he  has  ap- 
plied his  fine  powers  to  the  vindication  of  the  Christian 
faith,  with  an  especial  view  to  that  particular  develop- 
ment. Latterly,  as  you  may  not  have  heard,  he  has  taken 
orders,  and  been  inducted  to  a small  country  living  in 
the  gift  of  the  lord  chancellor.  Just  now,  luckily  for  me, 
he  has  come  to  the  metropolis  ta  superintend  the  publi- 
cation of  a volume  of  discourses  treating  of  the  poetico- 
philosophical  proofs  of  Christianity  on  the  basis  of  the 
Thirty-nine  Articles.  On  my  first  introduction  I felt 


152 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


no  little  embarrassment  as  to  the  manner  of  combining 
what  I had  to  say  to  the  author  of  Queen  Mab,  the 
Revolt  of  Islam,  and  Prometheus  Unbound  with  such 
acknowledgments  as  might  be  acceptable  to  a Chris- 
tian minister  and  zealous  upholder  of  the  established 
church.  But  Shelley  soon  placed  me  at  my  ease. 
Standing  where  he  now  does,  and  reviewing  all  his  suc- 
cessive productions  from  a higher  point,  he  assures  me 
that  there  is  a harmony,  an  order,  a regular  procession, 
which  enables  him  to  lay  his  hand  upon  any  one  of  the 
earlier  poems  and  say,  “ This  is  my  work,”  with  pre- 
cisely the  same  complacency  of  conscience  wherewith- 
al he  contemplates  the  volume  of  discourses  above 
mentioned.  They  are  like  the  successive  steps  of  a 
staircase,  the  lowest  of  which,  in  the  depth  of  chaos, 
is  as  essential  to  the  support  of  the  whole  as  the  high- 
est and  final  one  resting  upon  the  threshold  of  the 
heavens.  I felt  half  inclined  to  ask  him  what  would 
have  been  his  fate  had  he  perished  on  the  lower  steps 
of  his  staircase  instead  of  building  his  way  aloft  into 
the  celestial  brightness. 

How  all  this  may  be  I neither  pretend  to  understand 
nor  greatly  care,  so  long  as  Shelley  has  really  climbed, 
as  it  seems  he  has,  from  a lower  region  to  a loftier  one. 
Without  touching  upon  their  religious  merits,  I consider 
the  productions  of  his  maturity  superior,  as  poems,  to 
those  of  his  youth.  They  are  warmer  with  human 
love,  which  has  served  as  an  interpreter  between  his 
mind  and  the  multitude.  The  author  has  learned  to 
dip  his  pen  oftener  into  his  heart,  and  has  thereby 
avoided  the  faults  into  which  a too  exclusive  use  of  fan- 
cy and  intellect  are  wont  to  betray  him  Formerly  his 


P.’s  CORRESPONDENCE. 


153 


page  was  often  little  other  than  a concrete  arrangement 
of  crystallizations,  or  even  of  icicles,  as  cold  as  they 
were  brilliant.  Now  you  take  it  to  your  heart,  and  are 
conscious  of  a heart  warmth  responsive  to  your  own. 
In  his  private  character  Shelley  can  hardly  have  grown 
more  gentle,  kind,  and  affectionate  than  his  friends 
always  represented  him  to  be  up  to  that  disastrous 
night  when  he  was  drowned  in  the  Mediterranean. 
Nonsense,  again — sheer  nonsense!  What  am  I bab- 
bling about  ? I was  thinking  of  that  old  figment  of  his 
being  lost  in  the  Bay  of  Spezzia,  and  washed  ashore 
near  Via  Reggio,  and  burned  to  ashes  on  a funeral 
pyre,  with  wine,  and  spices,  and  frankincense ; while 
Byron  stood  on  the  beach  and  beheld  a flame  of  mar- 
vellous beauty  rise  heavenward  from  the  dead  poet’s 
heart,  and  that  his  fire-purified  relics  were  finally 
buried  near  his  child  in  Roman  earth.  If  all  this  hap- 
pened three  and  twenty  years  ago,  how  could  I have 
met  the  drowned,  and  burned,  and  buried  man  here  in 
London  only  yesterday  ? 

Before  quitting  the  subject,  I may  mention  that  Dr. 
Reginald  Heber,  heretofore  Bishop  of  Calcutta,  but  re- 
cently translated  to  a see  in  England,  called  on  Shelley 
while  I was  with  him.  They  appeared  to  be  on  terms 
of  very  cordial  intimacy,  and  are  said  to  have  a joint 
poem  in  contemplation.  What  a strange,  incongruous 
dream  is  the  life  of  man ! 

Coleridge  has  at  last  finished  his  poem  of  Christabel. 
It  will  be  issued  entire  by  old  John  Murray  in  the  course 
of  the  present  publishing  season.  The  poet,  I hear, 
is  visited  with  a troublesome  affection  of  the  tongue, 
which  has  put  a period,  or  some  lesser  stop,  to  the  life- 


154 


MOSSES  FRJM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


long  discourse  that  has  hitherto  been  flowing  from  his 
lips.  He  will  not  survive  it  above  a month  unless  his 
accumulation  of  ideas  be  sluiced  off  in  some  other  way. 
Wordsworth  died  only  a week  or  two  ago.  Heaven 
rest  his  soul,  and  grant  that  he  may  not  have  completed 
The  Excursion ! Methinks  I am  sick  of  every  thing 
he  wrote  except  his  Laodamia.  It  is  veiy  sad,  this 
inconstancy  of  the  mind  to  the  poets  whom  it  once 
worshipped.  Southey  is  as  hale  as  ever,  and  writes 
with  his  usual  diligence.  Old  Gifford  is  still  alive,  in 
the  extremity  of  age,  and  with  most  pitiable  decay  of 
what  little  sharp  and  narrow  intellect  the  devil  had 
gifted  him  withal.  One  hates  to  allow  such  a man  the 
privilege  of  growing  old  and  infirm.  It  takes  away 
our  speculative  license  of  kicking  him. 

Keats  ? No ; I have  not  seen  him  except  across  a 
crowded  street,  with  coaches,  drays,  horsemen,  cabs, 
omnibuses,  foot  passengers,  and  divers  other  sensual 
obstructions  intervening  betwixt  his  small  and  slender 
figure  and  my  eager  glance.  I would  fain  have  met 
him  on  the  sea  shore,  or  beneath  a natural  arch  of  forest 
trees,  or  the  Gothic  arch  of  an  old  cathedral,  or  among 
Grecian  ruins,  or  at  a glimmering  fireside  on  the  verge 
of  evening,  or  at  the  twilight  entrance  of  a cave,  into  the 
dreamy  depths  of  which  he  would  have  led  me  by  the 
hand ; any  where,  in  short,  save  at  Temple  Bar,  where  his 
presence  was  blotted  out  by  the  porter-swollen  bulks  of 
these  gross  Englishmen.  I stood  and  watched  him  fad- 
ing away,  fading  away  along  the  pavement,  and  could 
hardly  tell  whether  he  were  an  actual  man  or  a thought 
that  had  slipped  out  of  my  mind  and  clothed  itself  in  hu* 
man  form  and  habiliments  merely  to  beguile  me.  At  one 


P.’s  CORRESPONDENCE. 


155 


moment  be  put  his  handkerchief  to  his  lips,  and  with- 
drew it,  I am  almost  certain,  stained  with  blood.  You 
never  saw  any  thing  so  fragile  as  his  person.  The 
truth  is,  Keats  has  all  his  life  felt  the  effects  of  that  ter- 
rible bleeding  at  the  lungs  caused  by  the  article  on  his 
Endymion  in  the  Quarterly  Review,  and  which  so 
nearly  brought  him  to  the  grave.  Ever  since  he  has 
glided  about  the  world  like  a ghost,  sighing  a melan- 
choly tone  in  the  ear  of  here  and  there  a friend,  but 
never  sending  forth  his  voice  to  greet  the  multitude. 
I can  hardly  think  him  a great  poet.  The  burden  of  a 
mighty  genius  would  never  have  been  imposed  upon 
shoulders  so  physically  frail  and  a spirit  so  infirmly 
sensitive.  Great  poets  should  have  iron  sinews. 

Yet  Keats,  though  for  so  many  years  he  has  given 
nothing  to  the  world,  is  understood  to  have  devoted 
himself  to  the  composition  of  an  epic  poem.  Some 
passages  of  it  have  been  communicated  to  the  inner 
circle  of  his  admirers,  and  impressed  them  as  the  lof- 
tiest strains  that  have  been  audible  on  earth  since  Mil- 
ton’s days.  If  I can  obtain  copies  of  these  specimens, 
I will  ask  you  to  present  them  to  James  Russell  Lowell 
who  seems  to  be  one  of  the  poet’s  most  fervent  and 
worthiest  worshippers.  The  information  took  me  by 
surprise.  I had  supposed  that  all  Keats’s  poetic  in- 
cense, without  being  imbodied  in  human  language, 
floated  up  to  heaven  and  mingled  with  the  songs  of  the 
immortal  choristers,  who  perhaps  were  conscious  of  an 
unknown  voice  among  them,  and  thought  their  melody 
the  sweeter  for  it.  But  it  is  not  so ; he  has  positively 
written  a poem  on  the  subject  of  Paradise  Regained 
though  in  another  sense  than  that  which  presented  itself 


156 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


to  the  mind  of  Milton.  In  compliance,  it  may  be  im- 
agined, with  the  dogma  of  those  who  pretend  that  all 
epic  possibilities  in  the  past  history  of  the  world  are 
exhausted,  Keats  has  thrown  his  poem  forward  into  an 
indefinitely  remote  futurity.  He  pictures  mankind 
amid  the  closing  circumstances  of  the  timelong  war- 
fare between  good  and  evil.  Our  race  is  on  the  eve 
of  its  final  triumph.  Man  is  within  the  last  stride  of 
perfection ; Woman,  redeemed  from  the  thraldom 
against  which  our  sibyl  uplifts  so  powerful  and  so  sad 
a remonstrance,  stands  equal  by  his  side  or  communes 
for  herself  with  angels ; the  Earth,  sympathizing  with 
her  children’s  happier  state,  has  clothed  herself  in 
such  luxuriant  and  loving  beauty  as  no  eye  ever  wit- 
nessed since  our  first  parents  saw  the  sun  rise  over 
dewy  Eden.  Nor  then  indeed  ; for  this  is  the  fulfil- 
ment of  what  was  then  but  a golden  promise.  But  the 
picture  has  its  shadows.  There  remains  to  mankind 
another  peril  — a last  encounter  with  the  evil  principle. 
Should  the  battle  go  against  us,  we  sink  back  into  the 

slime  and  misery  of  ages.  If  we  triumph But  it 

demands  a poet’s  eye  to  contemplate  the  splendor  of 
such  a consummation  and  not  to  be  dazzled. 

To  this  great  work  Keats  is  said  to  have  brought  so 
deep  and  tender  a spirit  of  humanity  that  the  poem  has 
all  the  sweet  and  warm  interest  of  a village  tale  no  less 
than  the  grandeur  which  befits  so  high  a theme.  Such, 
at  least,  is  the  perhaps  partial  representation  of  his 
friends  ; for  I have  not  read  or  heard  even  a single  line 
of  the  performance  in  question.  Keats,  I am  told,  with- 
holds it  from  the  press,  under  an  idea  that  the  age  has 
not  enough  of  spiritual  insight  to  receive  it  worthily. 


P.’s  CORRESPONDENCE. 


157 


I do  not  like  this  distrust ; it  makes  me  distrust  the  poet. 
The  universe  is  waiting  to  respond  to  the  highest  word 
that  the  best  child  of  time  and  immortality  can  utter. 
If  it  refuse  to  listen,  it  is  because  he  mumbles  and  stam- 
mers, or  discourses  things  unseasonable  and  foreign  to 
the  purpose. 

I visited  the  House  of  Lords  the  other  day  to  hear 
Canning,  who,  you  know,  is  now  a peer,  with  I forget 
what  title.  He  disappointed  me.  Time  blunts  both 
point  and  edge,  and  does  great  mischief  to  men  of  his 
order  of  intellect.  Then  I stepped  into  the  lower 
house  and  listened  to  a few  words  from  Cobbett, 
who  looked  as  earthy  as  a real  clodhopper,  or 
rather  as  if  he  had  lain  a dozen  years  beneath  the 
clods.  The  men  whom  I meet  nowadays  often  im- 
press me  thus  ; probably  because  my  spirits  are  not 
very  good,  and  lead  me  to  think  much  about  graves, 
with  the  long  grass  upon  them,  and  weather-worn  epi- 
taphs, and  dry  bones  of  people  who  made  noise  enough 
in  their  day,  but  now  can  only  clatter,  clatter,  clatter 
when  the  sexton’s  spade  disturbs  them.  Were  it  only 
possible  to  find  out  who  are  alive  and  who  dead,  it 
would  contribute  infinitely  to  my  peace  of  mind.  Eveiy 
day  of  my  life  somebody  comes  and  stares  me  in  the 
face  wh(  m I had  quietly  blotted  out  of  the  tablet  of  liv- 
ing men,  and  trusted  nevermore  to  be  pestered  with  the 
sight  or  sound  of  him.  For  instance,  going  to  Drury 
Lane  Theatre  a few  evenings  since,  up  rose  before  me, 
in  the  ghost  of  Hamlet’s  father,  the  bodily  presence  of 
the  elder  Kean,  who  did  die,  or  ought  to  have  died,  in 
some  drunken  fit  or  other,  so  long  ago  that  his  fame  is 


158 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


scarcely  traditionary  now.  His  powers  are  quite  gone  ; 
he  was  rather  the  ghost  of  himself  than  the  ghost  of  the 
Danish  king. 

In  the  stage  box  sat  several  elderly  and  decrepit  peo- 
ple, and  among  them  a stately  ruin  of  a woman  on  a 
very  large  scale,  with  a profile  — for  I did  not  see  her 
front  face  — that  stamped  itself  into  my  brain  as  a seal 
impresses  hot  wax.  By  the  tragic  gesture  with  which 
she  took  a pinch  of  snuff,  I was  sure  it  must  be  Mrs. 
Siddons.  Her  brother,  John  Kemble,  sat  behind  — a 
broken-down  figure,  but  still  with  a kingly  majesty 
about  him.  In  lieu  of  all  former  achievements,  Nature 
enables  him  to  look  the  part  of  Lear  far  better  than  in 
the  meridian  of  his  genius.  Charles  Matthews  was 
likewise  there  ; but  a paralytic  affection  has  distorted 
his  once  mobile  countenance  into  a most  disagreeable 
onesidedness,  from  which  he  could  no  more  wrench  it 
into  proper  form  than  he  could  rearrange  the  face  of 
the  great  globe  itself.  It  looks  as  if,  for  the  joke’s  sake, 
the  poor  man  had  twisted  his  features  into  an  expression 
at  once  the  most  ludicrous  and  horrible  that  he  could 
contrive,  and  at  that  very  moment,  as  a judgment  for 
making  himself  so  hideous,  an  avenging  Providence  had 
seen  fit  to  petrify  him.  Since  it  is  out  of  his  own 
power,  I would  gladly  assist  him  to  change  counte- 
nance, for  his  ugly  visage  haunts  me  both  at  noontide 
and  nighttime.  Some  other  players  of  the  past  genera- 
tion were  present,  but  none  that  greatly  interested  me. 
It  behooves  actors,  more  than  all  other  men  of  publicity, 
to  vanish  from  the  scene  betimes.  Being  at  best  but 
painted  shadows  flickering  on  the  wall  and  empty 


P.’s  CORRESPONDENCE. 


159 


sounds  that  echo  another’s  thought,  it  is  a sad  disen- 
chantment when  the  colors  begin  to  fade  and  the  voice 
to  croak  with  age. 

What  is  there  new  in  the  literary  way  on  your  side 
of  the  water  ? Nothing  of  the  kind  has  come  under  my 
inspection  except  a volume  of  poems  published  above  a 
year  ago  by  Dr.  Channing.  I did  not  before  know  that 
this  eminent  writer  is  a poet ; nor  does  the  volume  al- 
luded to  exhibit  any  of  the  characteristics  of  the  author’s 
mind  as  displayed  in  his  prose  works  ; although  some 
of  the  poems  have  a richness  that  is  not  merely  of  the 
surface,  but  glows  still  the  brighter  the  deeper  and  more 
faithfully  you  look  into  them.  They  seem  carelessly 
wrought,  however,  like  those  rings  and  ornaments  of 
the  very  purest  gold,  but  of  rude,  native  manufacture, 
which  are  found  among  the  gold  dust  from  Africa.  I 
doubt  whether  the  American  public  will  accept  them  ; 
it  looks  less  to  the  assay  of  metal  than  to  the  neat  and 
cunning  manufacture.  How  slowly  our  literature  grows 
up  ! Most  of  our  writers  of  promise  have  come  to  un- 
timely ends.  There  was  that  wild  fellow,  John  Neal, 
who  almost  turned  my  boyish  brain  with  his  romances  . 
he  surely  has  long  been  dead,  else  he  never  could  keep 
himself  so  quiet.  Bryant  has  gone  to  his  last  sleep, 
with  the  Thanatopsis  gleaming  over  him  like  a sculp- 
tured marble  sepulchre  by  moonlight.  Halleck,  who 
used  to  write  queer  verses  in  the  newspapers  and  pub- 
lished a Don  Juanic  poem  called  Fanny,  is  defunct  as  a 
poet,  though  averred  to  be  exemplifying  the  metemp- 
sychosis as  a man  of  business.  Somewhat  later  there 
was  Whittier,  a fiery  Quaker  youth,  to  whom  the  muse 


160 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


had  perversely  assigned  a battle  trumpet,  and  who  got 
himself  lynched,  ten  years  agone,  in  South  Carolina.  I 
remember,  too,  a lad  just  from  college,  Longfellow  by 
name,  who  scattered  some  delicate  verses  to  the  winds, 
and  went  to  Germany,  and  perished,  I think,  of  intense 
application,  at  the  University  of  Gottingen.  Willis  — 
what  a pity  ! — was  lost,  if  I recollect  rightly,  in  1833,  on 
his  voyage  to  Europe,  whither  he  was  going  to  give  us 
sketches  of  the  world’s  sunny  face.  If  these  had  lived, 
they  might,  one  or  all  of  them,  have  grown  to  be  famous 
men. 

And  yet  there  is  no  telling ; it  may  be  as  well  that 
they  have  died.  I was  myself  a young  man  of  prom- 
ise. O shattered  brain,  O broken  spirit,  where  is  the 
fulfilment  of  that  promise  ? The  sad  truth  is,  that, 
when  fate  would  gently  disappoint  the  world,  it  takes 
away  the  hopefulest  mortals  in  their  youth  ; when  it 
would  laugh  the  world’s  hopes  to  scorn,  it  lets  them 
live.  Let  me  die  upon  this  apothegm,  for  I shall 
never  make  a truer  one. 

What  a strange  substance  is  the  human  brain  ! Or 
rather,  — for  there  is  no  need  of  generalizing  the  re- 
mark,— what  an  odd  brain  is  mine!  Would  you  be- 
lieve it?  Daily  and  nightly  there  come  scraps  of 
poetry  humming  in  my  intellectual  ear  — some  as  airy 
as  bird  notes,  and  some  as  delicately  neat  as  parlor 
music,  and  a few  as  grand  as  organ  peals  — that  seem 
just  such  verses  as  those  departed  poets  would  have 
written  had  not  an  inexorable  destiny  snatched  them 
from  their  inkstands.  They  visit  me  in  spirit,  perhaps 
desiring  to  engage  my  services  as  the  amanuensis  of 


P.'s  CORRESPONDENCE. 


161 


their  posthumous  productions,  and  thus  secure  the  end- 
less renown  that  they  have  forfeited  by  going  hence  too 
early.  But  I have  my  own  business  to  attend  to ; and 
besides,  a medical  gentleman,  who  interests  himself  in 
some  little  ailments  of  mine,  advises  me  not  to  make 
too  free  use  of  pen  and  ink.  There  are  clerks  enough 
out  of  employment  who  would  be  glad  of  such  a job. 

Good  by  ! Are  you  alive  or  dead  ? and  what  are 
you  about  ? Still  scribbling  for  the  Democratic  ? And 
do  those  infernal  compositors  and  proof  readers  mis- 
print your  unfortunate  productions  as  vilely  as  ever  ? 
It  is  too  bad.  Let  every  man  manufacture  his  own  non- 
sense, say  I.  Expect  me  home  soon,  and  — to  whisper 
you  a secret — in  company  with  the  poet  Campbell, 
who  purposes  to  visit  Wyoming  and  enjoy  the  shadow 
of  the  laurels  that  he  planted  there.  Campbell  is  now 
an  old  man.  He  calls  himself  well,  better  than  ever  in 
his  life,  but  looks  strangely  pale,  and  so  shadow-like 
that  one  might  almost  poke  a finger  through  his  densest 
material.  I tell  him,  by  way  of  joke,  that  he  is  as  dim 
and  forlorn  as  Memory,  though  as  unsubstantial  as 
Hope.  Your  true  friend,  P. 

P.  S.  — Pray  present  my  most  respectful  regards  to 
our  venerable  and  revered  friend  Mr.  Brockden  Brown. 
It  gratifies  me  to  learn  that  a complete  edition  of  his 
works,  in  a double-columned  octavo  volume,  is  shortly 
to  issue  from  the  press  at  Philadelphia.  Tell  him  that 
no  American  writer  enjoys  a more  classic  reputation  on 
this  side  of  the  water.  Is  old  Joel  Barlow  yet  alive  ? 
Unconscionable  man ! Why,  he  must  have  nearly  ful- 
vol.  ti.  11 


162 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


filled  his  century.  And  does  he  meditate  an  epic  on 
the  war  between  Mexico  and  Texas  with  machinery 
contrived  on  the  principle  of  the  steam  engine,  as  being 
the  nearest  to  celestial  agency  that  our  epoch  can 
boast  ? How  can  he  expect  ever  to  rise  again,  if,  while 
just  sinking  into  his  grave,  he  persists  in  burdening 
himself  with  such  a ponderosity  of  leaden  verses  ? 


EARTH’S  HOLOCAUST. 


Once  upon  a time  — but  whether  in  the  time  past  or 
time  to  come  is  a matter  of  little  or  no  moment  — this 
wide  world  had  become  so  overburdened  with  an  accu- 
mulation of  wornout  trumpery  that  the  inhabitants  de- 
termined to  rid  themselves  of  it  by  a general  bonfire. 
The  site  fixed  upon  at  the  representation  of  the  insur- 
ance companies,  and  as  being  as  central  a spot  as  any 
other  on  the  globe,  was  one  of  the  broadest  prairies  of 
the  west,  where  no  human  habitation  would  be  endan- 
gered by  the  flames,  and  where  a vast  assemblage  of 
spectators  might  commodiously  admire  the  show.  Hav- 
ing a taste  for  sights  of  this  kind,  and  imagining,  like- 
wise, that  the  illumination  of  the  bonfire  might  reveal 
some  profundity  of  moral  truth  heretofore  hidden  in 
mist  or  darkness,  I made  it  convenient  to  journey  thither 
and  be  present.  At  my  arrival,  although  the  heap  of 
condemned  rubbish  was  as  yet  comparatively  small,  the 
torch  had  already  been  applied.  Amid  that  boundless 
plain,  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  like  a far-off  star 
alone  in  the  firmament,  there  was  merely  visible  one 
tremulous  gleam,  whence  none  could  have  anticipated 
so  fierce  a blaze  as  was  destined  to  ensue.  With  every 
moment,  however,  there  came  foot  travellers,  women 
holding  up  their  aprons,  men  on  horseback,  wheelbar- 

(163) 


164 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


rows,  lumbering  baggage  wagons,  and  other  vehicles, 
great  and  small,  and  from  far  and  near,  laden  with  ar- 
ticles that  were  judged  fit  for  nothing  but  to  be  burned. 

“ What  materials  have  been  used  to  kindle  the 
flame  ? ” inquired  I of  a bystander ; for  I was  desirous 
of  knowing  the  whole  process  of  the  affair  from  begin- 
ning to  end. 

The  person  whom  I addressed  was  a grave  man,  fifty 
years  old  or  thereabout,  who  had  evidently  come  thither 
as  a looker  on.  He  struck  me  immediately  as  having 
weighed  for  himself  the  true  value  of  life  and  its  cir- 
cumstances, and  therefore  as  feeling  little  personal  in- 
terest in  whatever  judgment  the  world  might  form  of 
them.  Before  answering  my  question,  he  looked  me  in 
the  face  by  the  kindling  light  of  the  fire. 

“ O,  some  very  dry  combustibles,”  replied  he,  u and 
extremely  suitable  to  the  purpose  — no  other,  in  fact, 
than  yesterday’s  newspapers,  last  month’s  magazines, 
and  last  year’s  withered  leaves.  Here  now  comes  some 
antiquated  trash  that  will  take  fire  like  a handful  of 
shavings.” 

As  he  spoke,  some  rough-looking  men  advanced  to 
the  verge  of  the  bonfire,  and  threw  in,  as  it  appeared, 
all  the  rubbish  of  the  herald’s  office  — the  blazonry  of 
coat  armor,  the  crests  and  devices  of  illustrious  fami- 
lies, pedigrees  that  extended  back,  like  lines  of 
light,  into  the  mist  of  the  dark  ages,  together  with  stars, 
garters,  and  embroidered  collars,  each  of  which,  as 
paltry  a bawble  as  it  might  appear  to  the  uninstructed 
eye,  had  once  possessed  vast  significance,  and  was  still, 
in  truth,  reckoned  among  the  most  precious  of  moral  or 
material  facts  by  the  worshippers  of  the  gorgeous  past. 


earth’s  holocaust. 


165 


Mingled  with  this  confused  heap,  which  was  tossed  into 
the  flames  by  armfuls  at  once,  were  innumerable 
badges  of  knighthood,  comprising  those  of  all  the  Eu- 
ropean sovereignties,  and  Napoleon’s  decoration  of  the 
Legion  of  Honor,  the  ribbons  of  which  were  entangled 
with  those  of  the  ancient  order  of  St.  Louis.  There, 
too,  were  the  medals  of  our  own  Society  of  Cincinnati, 
by  means  of  which,  as  history  tells  us,  an  order  of 
hereditary  knights  came  near  being  constituted  out  of 
the  king  quellers  of  the  revolution.  And  besides,  there 
were  the  patents  of  nobility  of  German  counts  and  bar- 
ons, Spanish  grandees,  and  English  peers,  from  the 
wormeaten  instruments  signed  by  William  the  Con- 
queror down  to  the  bran  new  parchment  of  the  latest 
lord  who  has  received  his  honors  from  the  fair  hand  of 
Victoria. 

At  sight  of  the  dense  volumes  of  smoke,  mingled 
with  vivid  jets  of  flame,  that  gushed  and  eddied  forth 
from  this  immense  pile  of  earthly  distinctions,  the  mul- 
titude of  plebeian  spectators  set  up  a joyous  shout,  and 
clapped  their  hands  with  an  emphasis  that  made  the 
welkin  echo.  That  was  their  moment  of  triumph, 
achieved,  after  long  ages,  over  creatures  of  the  same 
clay  and  the  same  spiritual  infirmities,  who  had  dared 
to  assume  the  privileges  due  only  to  Heaven’s  better 
workmanship.  But  now  there  rushed  towards  the  blaz- 
ing heap  a grayhaired  man,  of  stately  presence,  wear- 
ing a coat,  from  the  breast  of  which  a star,  or  other 
badge  of  rank,  seemed  to  have  been  forcibly  wrenched 
away.  He  had  not  the  tokens  of  intellectual  power  in 
his  face  ; but  still  there  was  the  demeanor,  the  habit- 
ual and  almost  native  dignity,  of  one  who  had  been 


166 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


born  to  the  idea  of  his  own  social  superiority,  and  had 
never  felt  it  questioned  till  that  moment. 

“ People,”  cried  he,  gazing  at  the  ruin  of  what  was 
dearest  to  his  eyes  with  grief  and  wonder,  but  never- 
theless with  a degree  of  stateliness,  — w people,  what 
have  you  done  ? This  fire  is  consuming  all  that  marked 
your  advance  from  barbarism,  or  that  could  have  pre- 
vented your  relapse  thither.  We,  the  men  of  the 
privileged  orders,  were  those  who  kept  alive  from  age 
to  age  the  old  chivalrous  spirit ; the  gentle  and  gener- 
ous thought ; the  higher,  the  purer,  the  more  refined 
and  delicate  life.  With  the  nobles,  too,  you  cast  off 
the  poet,  the  painter,  the  sculptor  — all  the  beautiful 
arts  ; for  we  were  their  patrons,  and  created  the  atmos- 
phere in  which  they  flourish.  In  abolishing  the  ma- 
jestic distinctions  of  rank,  society  loses  not  only  its 
grace,  but  its  steadfastness ” 

More  he  would  doubtless  have  spoken  ; but  here  there 
arose  an  outcry,  sportive,  contemptuous,  and  indignant, 
that  altogether  drowned  the  appeal  of  the  fallen  noble- 
man, insomuch  that,  casting  one  look  of  despair  at  his 
own  half-burned  pedigree,  he  shrunk  back  into  the  crowd, 
glad  to  shelter  himself  under  his  new-found  insignifi- 
cance. 

“ Let  him  thank  his  stars  that  we  have  not  flung  him 
into  the  same  fire ! ” shouted  a rude  figure,  spurning 
the  embers  with  his  foot.  w And  henceforth  let  no  man 
dare  to  show  a piece  of  musty  parchment  as  his  war- 
rant for  lording  it  over  his  fellows.  If  he  have  strength 
of  arm,  well  and  good  ; it  is  one  species  of  superi- 
ority. If  he  have  wit,  wisdom,  courage,  force  of  char- 
acter, let  these  attributes  do  for  him  what  they  may ; 


iarth’s  holocaust. 


167 


but  from  this  day  forward  no  mortal  must  hope  for 
place  and  consideration  by  reckoning  up  the  mouldy 
bones  of  his  ancestors.  That  nonsense  is  done  away.” 
u And  in  good  time,”  remarked  the  grave  observer 
by  my  side,  in  a low  voice,  however,  “ if  no  worse 
nonsense  comes  in  its  place  ; but,  at  all  events,  this 
species  of  nonsense  has  fairly  lived  out  its  life.” 

There  was  little  space  to  muse  or  moralize  over  the 
embers  of  this  time-honored  rubbish  ; for,  before  it  was 
half  burned  out,  there  came  another  multitude  from  be- 
yond the  sea,  bearing  the  purple  robes  of  royalty,  and 
the  crowns,  globes,  and  sceptres  of  emperors  and 
kings.  All  these  had  been  condemned  as  useless  baw- 
bles,  playthings  at  best,  fit  only  for  the  infancy  of  the 
world  or  rods  to  govern  and  chastise  it  in  its  nonage, 
but  with  which  universal  manhood  at  its  full-grown 
stature  could  no  longer  brook  to  be  insulted.  Into  such 
contempt  had  these  regal  insignia  now  fallen  that  the 
gilded  crown  and  tinselled  robes  of  the  player  king  from 
Drury  Lane  Theatre  had  been  thrown  in  among  the 
rest,  doubtless  as  a mockeiy  of  his  brother  monarchs 
on  the  great  stage  of  the  world.  It  was  a strange  sight 
to  discern  the  crown  jewels  of  England  glowing  and 
flashing  in  the  midst  of  the  fire.  Some  of  them  had 
been  delivered  down  from  the  time  of  the  Saxon  princes  ; 
others  were  purchased  with  vast  revenues,  or  per- 
chance ravished  from  the  dead  brows  of  the  native  po- 
tentates of  Hindostan  ; and  the  whole  now  blazed  with 
a dazzling  lustre,  as  if  a star  had  fallen  in  that 
spot  and  been  shattered  into  fragments.  The  splen- 
dor of  the  ruined  monarchy  had  no  reflection  save  in 
those  inestimable  precious  stones.  But  enough  on  this 


168 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


subject.  It  were  but  tedious  to  describe  how  the  Em- 
peror of  Austria’s  mantle  was  converted  to  tinder,  and 
how  the  posts  and  pillars  of  the  French  throne  became 
a heap  of  coals,  which  it  was  impossible  to  distinguish 
from  those  of  any  other  wood.  Let  me  add,  however, 
that  I noticed  one  of  the  exiled  Poles  stirring  up  the 
bonfire  with  the  Czar  of  Russia’s  sceptre,  which  he  af- 
terwards flung  into  the  flames. 

“ The  smell  of  singed  garments  is  quite  intolerable 
here,”  observed  my  new  acquaintance,  as  the  breeze 
enveloped  us  in  the  smoke  of  a royal  wardrobe.  “ Let 
us  get  to  windward  and  see  what  they  are  doing  on  the 
other  side  of  the  bonfire.” 

We  accordingly  passed  around,  and  were  just  in  time 
to  witness  the  arrival  of  a vast  procession  of  Washing- 
tonians, — as  the  votaries  of  temperance  call  themselves 
nowadays,  — accompanied  by  thousands  of  the  Irish 
disciples  of  Father  Mathew,  with  that  great  apostle  at 
their  head.  They  brought  a rich  contribution  to  the 
bonfire  — being  nothing  less  than  all  the  hogsheads  and 
barrels  of  liquor  in  the  world,  which  they  rolled  before 
them  across  the  prairie. 

“ Now,  my  children,”  cried  Father  Mathew,  when 
they  reached  the  verge  of  the  fire,  w one  shove  more, 
and  the  work  is  done.  And  now  let  us  stand  off  and 
see  Satan  deal  with  his  own  liquor.” 

Accordingly,  having  placed  their  wooden  vessels 
within  reach  of  the  flames,  the  procession  stood  off  at 
a safe  distance,  and  soon  beheld  them  burst  into  a 
blaze  that  reached  the  clouds  and  threatened  to  set  the 
sky  itself  on  fire.  And  well  it  might ; for  here  was 
the  whole  world’s  stock  of  spirituous  liquors,  which, 


EARTH'S  HOLOCAUST. 


169 


instead  of  kindling  a frenzied  light  in  the  eyes  of  indi- 
vidual topers  as  of  yore,  soared  upwards  with  a bewil- 
dering gleam  that  startled  all  mankind.  It  was  the  ag- 
gregate of  that  fierce  fire  which  would  otherwise  have 
scorched  the  hearts  of  millions.  Meantime  numberless 
bottles  of  precious  wine  were  flung  into  the  blaze, 
which  lapped  up  the  contents  as  if  it  loved  them,  and 
grew,  like  other  drunkards,  the  merrier  and  fiercer  for 
what  it  quaffed.  Never  again  will  the  insatiable  thirst 
of  the  fire  fiend  be  so  pampered.  Here  were  the  treas- 
ures of  famous  bon  vivants  — liquors  that  had  been 
tossed  on  ocean,  and  mellowed  in  the  sun,  and  hoarded 
long  inlhe  recesses  of  the  earth  — the  pale,  the  gold, 
the  ruddy  juice  of  whatever  vineyards  were  most  del- 
icate— the  entire  vintage  of  Tokay  — all  mingling  in 
one  stream  with  the  vile  fluids  of  the  common  pothouse, 
and  contributing  to  heighten  the  selfsame  blaze.  And 
while  it  rose  in  a gigantic  spire  that  seemed  to  wave 
against  the  arch  of  the  firmament  and  combine  itself 
with  the  light  of  stars,  the  multitude  gave  a shout  as 
if  the  broad  earth  were  exulting  in  its  deliverance  from 
the  curse  of  ages. 

But  the  joy  was  not  universal.  Many  deemed  that 
human  life  would  be  gloomier  than  ever  when  that 
brief  illumination  should  sink  down.  While  the  re- 
formers were  at  work  I overheard  muttered  expostula- 
tions from  several  respectable  gentlemen  with  red  noses 
and  wearing  gouty  shoes  ; and  a ragged  worthy,  whose 
face  looked  like  a hearth  where  the  fire  is  burned  out, 
now  expressed  his  discontent  more  openly  and  boldly. 

“ What  is  this  world  good  for,”  said  the  last  toper, 
“ now  that  we  can  never  be  jolly  any  more  ? What  is 


170 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


to  comfort  the  poor  man  in  sorrow  and  perplexity  ? How 
is  he  to  keep  hlo  heart  warm  against  the  cold  winds  of 
this  cheerless  earth  ? And  what  do  you  propose  to  give 
him  in  exchange  for  the  solace  that  you  take  away  ? 
How  are  old  friends  to  sit  together  by  the  fireside  with- 
out a cheerful  glass  between  them  ? A plague  upon 
your  reformation  ! It  is  a sad  world,  a cold  world,  a 
selfish  world,  a low  world,  not  worth  an  honest  fellow’s 
living  in,  now  that  good  fellowship  is  gone  forever  ! ” 

This  harangue  excited  great  mirth  among  the  by- 
standers ; but,  preposterous  as  was  the  sentiment,  I 
could  not  help  commiserating  the  forlorn  condition  of 
the  last  toper,  whose  boon  companions  had  dwindled 
away  from  his  side,  leaving  the  poor  fellow  without  a 
soul  to  countenance  him  in  sipping  his  liquor,  nor  in- 
deed any  liquor  to  sip.  Not  that  this  was  quite  the  true 
state  of  the  case  ; for  I had  observed  him  at  a critical 
moment  filch  a bottle  of  fourth-proof  brandy  that  fell 
beside  the  bonfire  and  hide  it  in  his  pocket. 

The  spirituous  and  fermented  liquors  being  thus  dis- 
posed of,  the  zeal  of  the  reformers  next  induced  them 
to  replenish  the  fire  with  all  the  boxes  of  tea  and  bags 
of  coffee  in  the  world.  And  now  came  the  planters  of 
Virginia,  bringing  their  crops  of  tobacco.  These,  being 
cast  upon  the  heap  of  inutility,  aggregated  it  to  the 
size  of  a mountain,  and  incensed  the  atmosphere  with 
such  potent  fragrance  that  methought  we  should  never 
draw  pure  breath  again.  The  present  sacrifice  seemed 
to  startle  the  lovers  of  the  weed  more  than  any  that 
they  had  hitherto  witnessed. 

“ Well,  they’ve  put  my  pipe  out,”  said  an  old  gen- 
tleman, flinging  it  into  the  flames  in  a pet.  u What  is 


earth’s  holocaust. 


171 


this  world  coming  to  ? Every  thing  rich  and  racy  — all 
the  spice  of  life  — is  to  be  condemned  as  useless. 
Now  that  they  have  kindled  the  bonfire,  if  these  non* 
sensical  reformers  would  fling  themselves  into  it,  all 
would  be  well  enough  ! ” 

“ Be  patient,”  responded  a stanch  conservative  ; u it 
will  come  to  that  in  the  end.  They  will  first  fling  us 
in,  and  finally  themselves.” 

From  the  general  and  systematic  measures  of  reform 
I now  turned  to  consider  the  individual  contributions  to 
this  memorable  bonfire.  In  many  instances  these  were 
of  a very  amusing  character.  One  poor  fellow  threw 
in  his  empty  purse,  and  another  a bundle  of  counter- 
feit orinsolvable  bank  notes.  Fashionable  ladies  threw 
in  their  last  season’s  bonnets,  together  with  heaps  of 
ribbons,  yellow  lace,  and  much  other  half-worn  milli- 
ner’s ware,  all  of  which  proved  even  more  evanescent  in 
the  fire  than  it  had  been  in  the  fashion.  A multitude  of 
lovers  of  both  sexes  — discarded  maids  or  bachelors  and 
couples  mutually  weary  of  one  another  — tossed  in 
bundles  of  perfumed  letters  and  enamoured  sonnets.  A 
hack  politician,  being  deprived  of  bread  by  the  loss  of 
office,  threw  in  his  teeth,  which  happened  to  be  false 
ones.  The  Rev.  Sidney  Smith  — having  voyaged 
across  the  Atlantic  for  that  sole  purpose  — came  up  to 
the  bonfire  with  a bitter  grin  and  threw  in  certain  re- 
pudiated bonds,  fortified  though  they  were  with  the 
broad  seal  of  a sovereign  state.  A little  boy  of  five 
years  old,  in  the  premature  manliness  of  the  present 
epoch,  threw  in  his  playthings  ; a college  graduate  his 
diploma ; an  apothecaiy,  ruined  by  the  spread  of  ho- 
moeopathy, his  whole  stock  of  drugs  and  medicines ; a 


172 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


physician  his  library  ; a parson  his  old  sermons ; and 
a fine  gentleman  of  the  old  school  his  code  of  man- 
ners, which  he  had  formerly  written  down  for  the  benefit 
of  the  next  generation.  A widow,  resolving  on  a sec- 
ond marriage,  slyly  threw  in  her  dead  husband’s  min- 
iature. A young  man,  jilted  by  his  mistress,  would 
willingly  have  flung  his  own  desperate  heart  into  the 
flames,  but  could  find  no  means  to  wrench  it  out  of  his 
bosom.  An  American  author,  whose  works  were  neg- 
lected by  the  public,  threw  his  pen  and  paper  into  the 
bonfire  and  betook  himself  to  some  less  discouraging 
occupation.  It  somewhat  startled  me  to  overhear  a 
number  of  ladies,  highly  respectable  in  appearance, 
proposing  to  fling  their  gowns  and  petticoats  into  the 
flames,  and  assume  the  garb,  together  with  the  manners, 
duties,  offices,  and  responsibilities,  of  the  opposite  sex. 

What  favor  was  accorded  to  this  scheme  I am  una- 
ble to  say,  my  attention  being  suddenly  drawn  to  a 
poor,  deceived,  and  half-delirious  girl,  who,  exclaiming 
that  she  was  the  most  worthless  thing  alive  or  dead,  at- 
tempted to  cast  herself  into  the  fire  amid  all  that 
wrecked  and  broken  trumpery  of  the  world.  A good 
man,  however,  ran  to  her  rescue. 

u Patience,  my  poor  girl ! ” said  he,  as  he  drew  her 
back  from  the  fierce  embrace  of  the  destroying  angel. 
“ Be  patient,  and  abide  Heaven’s  will.  So  long  as  you 
possess  a living  soul,  all  may  be  restored  to  its  first 
freshness.  These  things  of  matter  and  creations  of 
human  fantasy  are  fit  for  nothing  but  to  be  burned  when 
once  they  have  had  their  day  ; but  your  day  is  eter- 
nity ! ” 

“ Yes,”  said  the  wretched  girl,  whose  frenzy  seemed 


earth’s  holocaust. 


173 


now  to  have  sunk  down  into  deep  despondency, — “ yes, 
and  the  sunshine  is  blotted  out  of  it ! ” 

It  was  now  rumored  among  the  spectators  that  all  the 
weapons  and  munitions  of  war  were  to  be  thrown  into 
the  bonfire  with  the  exception  of  the  world’s  stock  of 
gunpowder,  which,  as  the  safest  mode  of  disposing  of 
it,  had  already  been  drowned  in  the  sea.  This  intelli- 
gence seemed  to  awaken  great  diversity  of  opinion. 
The  hopeful  philanthropist  esteemed  it  a token  that  the 
millennium  was  already  come  ; while  persons  of  another 
stamp,  in  whose  view  mankind  was  a breed  of  bulldogs, 
prophesied  that  all  the  old  stoutness,  fervor,  nobleness, 
generosity,  and  magnanimity  of  the  race  would  disap- 
pear— these  qualities,  as  they  affirmed,  requiring  blood 
for  their  nourishment.  They  comforted  themselves, 
however,  in  the  belief  that  the  proposed  abolition  of 
war  was  impracticable  for  any  length  of  time  together. 

Be  that  as  it  might,  numberless  great  guns,  whose 
thunder  had  long  been  the  voice  of  battle,  — the  artil- 
lery of  the  Armada,  the  battering  trains  of  Marlbor- 
ough, and  the  adverse  cannon  of  Napoleon  and  Wel- 
lington,— were  trundled  into  the  midst  of  the  fire.  By 
the  continual  addition  of  dry  combustibles,  it  had  now 
waxed  so  intense  that  neither  brass  nor  iron  could  with- 
stand it.  It  was  wonderful  to  behold  how  these  terrible 
instruments  of  slaughter  melted  away  like  playthings 
of  wax.  Then  the  armies  of  the  earth  wheeled  around 
the  mighty  furnace,  with  their  military  music  playing 
triumphant  marches,  and  flung  in  their  muskets  and 
swords.  The  standard  bearers,  likewise,  cast  one  look 
upward  at  their  banners,  all  tattered  with  shot  holes 
and  inscribed  with  the  names  of  victorious  fields ; and, 


174 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


giving  them  a last  flourish  on  the  breeze,  they  lowered 
them  into  the  flame,  which  snatched  them  upward  in  its 
rush  towards  the  clouds.  This  ceremony  being  over, 
the  world  was  left  without  a single  weapon  in  its  hands, 
except  possibly  a few  old  king’s  arms  and  rusty  swords 
and  other  trophies  of  the  revolution  in  some  of  our 
state  armories.  And  now  the  drums  were  beaten  and 
the  trumpets  brayed  all  together,  as  a prelude  to  the 
proclamation  of  universal  and  eternal  peace  and  the 
announcement  that  glory  was  no  longer  to  be  won  by 
blood,  but  that  it  would  henceforth  be  the  contention 
of  the  human  race  to  work  out  the  greatest  mutual  good, 
and  that  beneficence,  in  the  future  annals  of  the  earth, 
would  claim  the  praise  of  valor.  The  blessed  tidings 
were  accordingly  promulgated,  and  caused  infinite  re- 
joicings among  those  who  had  stood  aghast  at  the  hor- 
ror and  absurdity  of  war. 

But  I saw  a grim  smile  pass  over  the  seared  visage 
of  a stately  old  commander,  — by  his  warworn  figure 
and  rich  military  dress,  he  might  have  been  one  of 
Napoleon’s  famous  marshals,  — who,  with  the  rest  of 
the  world’s  soldiery,  had  just  flung  away  the  sword  that 
had  been  familiar  to  his  right  hand  for  half  a century. 

44  Ay  ! ay  ! ” grumbled  he.  u Let  them  proclaim 
what  they  please  ; but,  in  the  end,  we  shall  find  that  all 
this  foolery  has  only  made  more  work  for  the  armorers 
and  cannon  founders.” 

44  Why,  sir,”  exclaimed  I,  in  astonishment,  44  do  you 
imagine  that  the  human  race  will  ever  so  far  return  on 
the  steps  of  its  past  madness  as  to  weld  another  sword 
or  cast  another  cannon  ? ” 

44  There  will  be  no  need,”  observed,  with  a sneer, 


earth’s  holocaust. 


175 


one  who  neither  felt  benevolence  nor  had  faith  in  it. 
“ When  Cain  wished  to  slay  his  brother,  he  was  at  no 
loss  for  a weapon.” 

“We  shall  see,”  replied  the  veteran  commander. 
u If  I am  mistaken,  so  much  the  better;  but  in  my 
opinion,  without  pretending  to  philosophize  about  the 
matter,  the  necessity  of  war  lies  far  deeper  than 
these  honest  gentlemen  suppose.  What ! is  there  a 
field  for  all  the  petty  disputes  of  individuals  ? and  shall 
there  be  no  great  law  court  for  the  settlement  of  nation- 
al difficulties?  The  battle  field  is  the  only  court  where 
such  suits  can  be  tried.” 

“ You  forget,  general,”  rejoined  I,  “ that,  in  this  ad- 
vanced stage  of  civilization,  Reason  and  Philanthropy 
combined  will  constitute  just  sucft  a tribunal  as  is 
requisite.” 

“ Ah,  I had  forgotten  that,  indeed  ! ” said  the  old 
warrior,  as  he  limped  away. 

The  fire  was  now  to  be  replenished  with  materials 
that  had  hitherto  been  considered  of  even  greater  im- 
portance to  the  well  being  of  society  than  the  warlike 
munitions  which  we  had  already  seen  consumed.  A 
body  of  reformers  had  travelled  all  over  the  earth  in 
puest  of  the  machinery  by  which  the  different  nations 
were  accustomed  to  inflict  the  punishment  of  death.  A 
shudder  passed  through  the  multitude  as  these  ghastly 
emblems  were  dragged  forward.  Even  the  flames 
seemed  at  first  to  shrink  away,  displaying  the  shape  and 
murderous  contrivance  of  each  in  a full  blaze  of  light, 
which  of  itself  was  sufficient  to  convince  mankind  of 
the  long  and  deadly  error  of  human  law.  Those  old 
implements  of  cruelty;  those  horrible  monsters  of 


176 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


mechanism ; those  inventions  which  it  seemed  to  de- 
mand something  worse  than  man’s  natural  heart  to  con- 
trive, and  which  had  lurked  in  the  dusky  nooks  of 
ancient  prisons,  the  subject  of  terror-stricken  legend, — • 
were  now  brought  forth  to  view.  Headsmen’s  axes,  with 
the  rust  of  noble  and  royal  blood  upon  them,  and  a vast 
collection  of  halters  that  had  choked  the  breath  of  ple- 
beian victims,  were  thrown  in  together.  A shout  greet- 
ed the  arrival  of  the  guillotine,  which  was  thrust  forward 
on  the  same  wheels  that  had  borne  it  from  one  to  an- 
other of  the  bloodstained  streets  of  Paris.  But  the  s 
loudest  roar  of  applause  went  up,  telling  the  distant 
sky  of  the  triumph  of  the  earth’s  redemption,  when  the 
gallows  made  its  appearance.  An  ill-looking  fellow, 
however,  rushed  forward,  and,  putting  himself  in  the 
path  of  the  reformers,  bellowed  hoarsely,  and  fought 
with  brute  fury  to  stay  their  progress. 

It  was  little  matter  of  surprise,  perhaps,  that  the  exe- 
cutioner should  thus  do  his  best  to  vindicate  and  uphold 
the  machinery  by  which  he  himself  had  his  livelihood 
and  worthier  individuals  their  death  ; but  it  deserved 
special  note  that  men  of  a far  different  sphere  — even 
of  that  consecrated  class  in  whose  guardianship  the 
world  is  apt  to  trust  its  benevolence  — were  found  to 
take  the  hangman’s  view  of  the  question. 

“ Stay,  my  brethren  ! ” cried  one  of  them.  “ You. 
are  misled  by  a false  philanthropy ; you  know  not 
what  you  do.  The  gallows  is  a Heaven-ordained  in- 
strument. Bear  it  back,  then,  reverently,  and  set  it  up 
in  its  old  place,  else  the  world  will  fall  to  speedy  ruin 
and  desolation ! ” 

u Onward  ! onward  ! ” shouted  a leader  in  the  reform. 


earth’s  holocaust. 


177 


“ Into  the  flames  with  the  accursed  instrument  of  man’s 
bloody  policy  ! How  can  human  law  inculcate  benevo- 
lence and  love  while  it  persists  in  setting  up  the  gal- 
lows as  its  chief  symbol  ? One  heave  more,  good 
friends,  and  the  world  will  be  redeemed  from  its  great- 
est error.” 

A thousand  hands,  that  nevertheless  loathed  the 
touch,  now  lent  their  assistance,  and  thrust  the  ominous 
burden  far,  far  into  the  centre  of  the  raging  furnace. 
There  its  fatal  and  abhorred  image  was  beheld,  first 
black,  then  a red  coal,  then  ashes. 

u That  was  well  done  ! ” exclaimed  I. 

“ Yes,  it  was  well  done,”  replied,  but  with  less  en- 
thusiasm than  I expected,  the  thoughtful  observer  who 
was  still  at  my  side ; “ well  done,  if  the  world  be  good 
enough  for  the  measure.  Death,  however,  is  an  idea 
that  cannot  easily  be  dispensed  with  in  any  condition 
between  the  primal  innocence  and  that  other  purity  and 
perfection  which  perchance  we  are  destined  to  attain 
after  travelling  round  the  full  circle  ; but,  at  all  events, 
it  is  well  that  the  experiment  should  now  be  tried.” 
u Too  cold ! too  cold ! ” impatiently  exclaimed  the 
young  and  ardent  leader  in  this  triumph.  u Let  the 
heart  have  its  voice  here  as  well  as  the  intellect.  And 
as  for  ripeness,  and  as  for  progress,  let  mankind 
always  do  the  highest,  kindest,  noblest  thing  that,  at 
any  given  period,  it  has  attained  the  perception  of ; and 
surely  that  thing  cannot  be  wrong  nor  wrongly  timed.” 
I know  not  whether  it  were  the  excitement  of  the 
scene,  or  whether  the  good  people  around  the  bonfire 
were  really  growing  more  enlightened  every  instant ; 
but  they  now  proceeded  to  measures  in  the  full  length 
VOL.  II.  12 


178 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


of  which  I was  hardly  prepared  to  keep  them  company. 
For  instance,  some  threw  t*heir  marriage  certificates 
into  the  flames,  and  declared  themselves  candidates  for 
a higher,  holier,  and  more  comprehensive  union  than 
that  which  had  subsisted  from  the  birth  of  time  under 
the  form  of  the  connubial  tie.  Others  hastened  to  the 
vaults  of  banks  and  to  the  coffers  of  the  rich  — all  of 
which  were  open  to  the  first  comer  on  this  fated  occa- 
sion — and  brought  entire  bales  of  paper  money  to  en- 
liven the  blaze  and  tons  of  coin  to  be  melted  down  by 
its  intensity.  Henceforth,  they  said,  universal  benevo- 
lence, uncoined  and  exhaustless,  was  to  be  the  golden 
currency  of  the  world.  At  this  intelligence  the  bank- 
ers and  speculators  in  the  stocks  grew  pale,  and  a 
pickpocket,  who  had  reaped  a rich  harvest  among  the 
crowd,  fell  down  in  a deadly  fainting  fit.  A few  men 
of  business  burned  their  day  books  and  legers,  the  notes 
and  obligations  of  their  creditors,  and  all  other  evidences 
of  debts  due  to  themselves ; while  perhaps  a some- 
what larger  number  satisfied  their  zeal  for  reform  with 
the  sacrifice  of  any  uncomfortable  recollection  of  their 
own  indebtment.  There  was  then  a cry  that  the  period 
was  arrived  when  the  title  deeds  of  landed  property 
should  be  given  to  the  flames,  and  the  whole  soil  of  the 
earth  revert  to  the  public,  from  whom  it  had  been  wrong- 
fully abstracted  and  most  unequally  distributed  among 
individuals.  Another  party  demanded  that  all  written 
constitutions,  set  forms  of  government,  legislative  acts, 
statute  books,  and  every  thing  else  on  which  human  in- 
vention had  endeavored  to  stamp  its  arbitrary  laws 
should  at  once  be  destroyed,  leaving  the  consummated 
world  as  free  as  the  man  first  created. 


earth’s  holocaust. 


179 


Whether  any  ultimate  action  was  taker,  with  regard 
to  these  propositions  is  beyond  my  know  \edge  ; for, 
just  then,  some  matters  were  in  progress  that  concerned 
my  sympathies  more  nearly. 

44  See  ! see  ! What  heaps  of  books  and  pamphlets  ! ” 
cried  a fellow,  who  did  not  seem  to  be  a lover  of  litera- 
ture. 44  Now  we  shall  have  a glorious  blaze  ! ” 

44  That’s  just  the  thing  ! ” said  a modern  philosopher. 
u Now  we  shall  get  rid  of  the  weight  of  dead  men’s 
thought,  which  has  hitherto  pressed  so  heavily  on  the 
living  intellect  that  it  has  been  incompetent  to  any  ef- 
fectual self-exertion.  Well  done,  my  lads  ! Into  the 
fire  with  them  ! Now  you  are  enlightening  the  world 
indeed  ! ” 

44  But  what  is  to  become  of  the  trade  ? ” cried  a 
frantic  bookseller. 

44  O,  by  all  means,  let  them  accompany  their  mer- 
chandise,” coolly  observed  an  author.  44  It  will  be  a 
noble  funeral  pile  ! ” 

The  truth  was,  that  the  human  race  had  now  reached 
a stage  of  progress  so  far  beyond  what  the  wisest  and 
wittiest  men  of  former  ages  had  ever  dreamed  of  that 
it  would  have  been  a manifest  absurdity  to  allow  the 
earth  to  be  any  longer  encumbered  with  their  poor 
achievements  in  the  literary  line.  Accordingly  a thor- 
ough and  searching  investigation  had  swept  the  book- 
sellers’ shops,  hawkers’  stands,  public  and  private 
libraries,  and  even  the  little  book  shelf  by  the  country 
fireside,  and  had  brought  the  world’s  entire  mass  of 
printed  paper,  bound  or  in  sheets,  to  swell  the  already 
mountain  bulk  of  our  illustrious  bonfire.  Thick,  heavy 
folios,  containing  the  labors  of  lexicographers,  com- 


180 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


mentators,  and  encyclopedists,  were  flung  in,  and,  fall- 
ing among  the  embers  with  a leaden  thump,  smouldered 
away  to  ashes  like  rotten  wood.  The  small,  richly  gilt 
French  tomes  of  the  last  age,  with  the  hundred  volumes 
of  Voltaire  among  them,  went  off  in  a brilliant  shower 
of  sparkles  and  little  jets  of  flame ; while  the  current 
literature  of  the  same  nation  burned  red  and  blue,  and 
threw  an  infernal  light  over  the  visages  of  the  specta- 
tors, converting  them  all  to  the  aspect  of  partycolored 
fiends.  A collection  of  German  stories  emitted  a scent 
of  brimstone.  The  English  standard  authors  made  ex- 
cellent fuel,  generally  exhibiting  the  properties  of  sound 
oak  logs.  Milton’s  works,  in  particular,  sent  up  a pow- 
erful blaze,  gradually  reddening  into  a coal,  which 
promised  to  endure  longer  than  almost  any  other  ma- 
terial of  the  pile.  From  Shakspeare  there  gushed  a 
flame  of  such  marvellous  splendor  that  men  shaded  their 
eyes  as  against  the  sun’s  meridian  glory ; nor  even 
when  the  works  of  his  own  elucidators  were  flung  upon 
him  did  he  cease  to  flash  forth  a dazzling  radiance 
from  beneath  the  ponderous  heap.  It  is  my  belief  that 
he  is  still  blazing  as  fervidly  as  ever. 

“ Could  a poet  but  light  a lamp  at  that  glorious 
flame,”  remarked  I,  “ he  might  then  consume  the  mid- 
night oil  to  some  good  purpose.” 

“ That  is  the  very  thing  which  modern  poets  have 
been  too  apt  to  do,  or  at  least  to  attempt,”  answered  a 
critic.  u The  chief  benefit  to  be  expected  from  this 
conflagration  of  past  literature  undoubtedly  is,  that 
writers  will  henceforth  be  compelled  to  light  their  lamp? 
at  the  sun  or  stars.” 

w If  they  can  reach  so  high,”  said  I ; “ but  that  tas^ 


earth’s  holocaust. 


181 


requires  a giant,  who  may  afterwards  distribute  the  light 
among  inferior  men.  It  is  not  every  one  that  can  steal 
the  fire  from  heaven  like  Prometheus  ; but,  when  once 
He  had  done  the  deed,  a thousand  hearths  were  kindled 
by  it.” 

It  amazed  me  much  to  observe  how  indefinite  was 
the  proportion  between  the  physical  mass  of  any  given 
author  and  the  property  of  brilliant  and  long-continued 
combustion.  For  instance,  there  was  not  a quarto  vol- 
ume of  the  last  century — nor,  indeed,  of  the  present  — 
that  could  compete  in  that  particular  with  a child’s 
little  gilt-covered  book,  containing  Mother  Goose’s  Melo- 
dies. The  Life  and  Death  of  Tom  Thumb  outlasted 
the  biography  of  Marlborough.  An  epic,  indeed  a 
dozen  of  them,  was  converted  to  white  ashes  before 
the  single  sheet  of  an  old  ballad  was  half  consumed. 
In  more  than  one  case,  too,  when  volumes  of  applauded 
verse  proved  incapable  of  any  thing  better  than  a sti- 
fling smoke,  an  unregarded  ditty  of  some  nameless  bard 
— perchance  in  the  corner  of  a newspaper  — soared  up 
among  the  stars  with  a flame  as  brilliant  as  their  own. 
Speaking  of  the  properties  of  flame,  methought  Shel- 
ley’s poetry  emitted  a purer  light  than  almost  any  other 
productions  of  his  day,  contrasting  beautifully  with  the 
fitful  and  lurid  gleams  and  gushes  of  black  vapor  that 
flashed  and  eddied  from  the  volumes  of  Lord  Byron. 
As  for  Tom  Moore,  some  of  his  songs  diffused  an  odor 
like  a burning  pastil. 

I felt  particular  interest  in  watching  the  combustion 
of  American  authors,  and  scrupulously  noted  by  my 
watch  the  precise  number  of  moments  that  changed 
most  of  them  from  shabbily-printed  books  to  indistin- 


182 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


guishable  ashes.  It  would  be  invidious,  however,  if 
not  perilous,  to  betray  these  awful  secrets  ; so  that  1 
shall  content  myself  with  observing  that  it  was  not  in- 
variably the  writer  most  frequent  in  the  public  mouth 
that  made  the  most  splendid  appearance  in  the  bonfire. 
I especially  remember  that  a great  deal  of  excellent  in- 
flammability was  exhibited  in  a thin  volume  of  poems 
by  Ellery  Charming  ; although,  to  speak  the  truth,  there 
were  certain  portions  that  hissed  and  spluttered  in  a 
very  disagreeable  fashion.  A curious  phenomenon  oc- 
curred in  reference  to  several  writers,  native  as  well  as 
foreign.  Their  books,  though  of  highly  respectable 
figure,  instead  of  bursting  into  a blaze  or  even  smoul- 
dering out  their  substance  in  smoke,  suddenly  melted 
away  in  a manner  that  proved  them  to  be  ice. 

If  it  be  no  lack  of  modesty  to  mention  my  own  works, 
it  must  here  be  confessed  that  I looked  for  them  with 
fatherly  interest,  but  in  vain.  Too  probably  they  were 
changed  to  vapor  by  the  first  action  of  the  heat ; at  best, 
I can  only  hope  that,  in  their  quiet  way,  they  contrib- 
uted a glimmering  spark  or  two  to  the  splendor  of  the 
evening. 

“ Alas  ! and  woe  is  me  ! ” thus  bemoaned  himself  a 
heavy-looking  gentleman  in  green  spectacles.  u The 
world  is  utterly  ruined,  and  there  is  nothing  to  live  for 
any  longer.  The  business  of  my  life  is  snatched  from 
me.  Not  a volume  to  be  had  for  love  or  money  ! ” 

“ This,”  remarked  the  sedate  observer  beside  me, 
u is  a bookworm  — one  of  those  men  who  are  born  to 
gnaw  dead  thoughts.  His  clothes,  you  see,  are  covered 
with  the  dust  of  libraries.  He  has  no  inward  fountain 
of  ideas ; and,  in  good  earnest,  now  that  the  old  stock 


earth’s  holocaust. 


183 


is  abolished,  I do  not  see  what  is  to  become  of  the  poor 
fellow.  Have  you  no  word  of  comfort  for  him  ? ” 

“ My  dear  sir,”  said  I to  the  desperate  bookworm, 
“ is  not  Nature  better  than  a book  ? Is  not  the  human 
heart  deeper  than  any  system  of  philosophy  ? Is  not 
life  replete  with  more  instruction  than  past  observers 
have  found  it  possible  to  write  down  in  maxims  ? Be 
of  good  cheer.  The  great  book  of  Time  is  still  spread 
wide  open  before  us  ; and,  if  we  read  it  aright,  it  will 
be  to  us  a volume  of  eternal  truth.” 

44  O,  my  books,  my  books,  my  precious  printed 
books ! ” reiterated  the  forlorn  bookworm.  44  My  only 
reality  was  a bound  volume  ; and  now  they  will  not 
leave  me  even  a shadowy  pamphlet ! ” 

In  fact,  the  last  remnant  of  the  literature  of  all  the 
ages  was  now  descending  upon  the  blazing  heap  in  the 
shape  of  a cloud  of  pamphlets  from  the  press  of  the 
New  World.  These  likewise  were  consumed  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye,  leaving  the  earth,  for  the  first  time 
since  the  days  of  Cadmus,  free  from  the  plague  of  let- 
ters — an  enviable  field  for  the  authors  of  the  next 
generation. 

44  Well,  and  does  any  thing  remain  to  be  done  ? ” in- 
quired I somewhat  anxiously.  “ Unless  we  set  fire  to 
the  earth  itself,  and  then  leap  boldly  off  into  infinite 
space,  I know  not  that  we  can  carry  reform  to  any 
farther  point.” 

44  You  are  vastly  mistaken,  my  good  friend,”  said  the 
observer.  44  Believe  me,  the  fire  will  not  be  allowed  to 
settle  down  without  the  addition  of  fuel  that  will  startle 
many  persons  who  have  lent  a willing  hand  thus  far.” 
Nevertheless  there  appeared  to  be  a relaxation  of 


184 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


effort  for  a little  time,  during  which,  probably,  the 
leaders  of  the  movement  were  considering  what  should 
be  done  next.  In  the  interval,  a philosopher  threw  his 
theory  into  the  flames  — a sacrifice  which,  by  those  who 
knew  how  to  estimate  it,  was  pronounced  the  most  re- 
markable that  had  yet  been  made.  The  combustion, 
however,  was  by  no  means  brilliant.  Some  indefatiga- 
ble people,  scorning  to  take  a moment’s  ease,  now  em- 
ployed themselves  in  collecting  all  the  withered  leaves 
and  fallen  boughs  of  the  forest,  and  thereby  recruited 
the  bonfire  to  a greater  height  than  ever.  But  this  was 
mere  by-play. 

“ Here  comes  the  fresh  fuel  that  I spoke  of,”  said  my 
companion. 

To  my  astonishment,  the  persons  who  now  advanced 
into  the  vacant  space  around  the  mountain  fire  bore 
surplices  and  other  priestly  garments,  mitres,  crosiers, 
and  a confusion  of  Popish  and  Protestant  emblems, 
with  which  it  seemed  their  purpose  to  consummate  the 
great  act  of  faith.  Crosses,  from  the  spires  of  old 
cathedrals  were  cast  upon  the  heap  with  as  little  re- 
morse as  if  the  reverence  of  centuries,  passing  in  long 
array  beneath  the  lofty  towers,  had  not  looked  up  to 
them  as  the  holiest  of  symbols.  The  font  in  which  in- 
fants were  consecrated  to  God,  the  sacramental  ves- 
sels whence  piety  received  the  hallowed  draught,  were 
given  to  the  same  destruction.  Perhaps  it  most  nearly 
touched  my  heart  to  see  among  these  devoted  relics 
fragments  of  the  humble  communion  tables  and  undeco- 
rated pulpits  which  I recognized  as  having  been  torn 
from  the  meeting  houses  of  New  England.  Those 
simple  edifices  might  have  been  permitted  to  retain  all 


earth’s  holocaust. 


185 


of  sacred  embellishment  that  their  Puritan  founders  had 
bestowed,  even  though  the  mighty  structure  of  St.  Pe- 
ter’s had  sent  its  spoils  to  the  fire  of  this  terrible  sacri- 
fice. Yet  I felt  that  these  were  but  the  externals  of 
religion,  and  might  most  safely  be  relinquished  by  spirits 
that  best  knew  their  deep  significance. 

“ All  is  well,”  said  I,  cheerfully.  “ The  woodpaths 
shall  be  the  aisles  of  our  cathedral  — the  firmament  it- 
self shall  be  its  ceiling.  What  needs  an  earthly  roof 
between  the  Deity  and  his  worshippers  ? Our  faith  can 
well  afford  to  lose  all  the  drapery  that  even  the  holiest 
men  have  thrown  around  it,  and  be  only  the  more  sub- 
lime in  its  simplicity.” 

u True,”  said  my  companion  ; “ but  will  they  pause 
here  ? ” 

The  doubt  implied  in  his  question  was  well  founded. 
In  the  general  destruction  of  books  already  described, 
a holy  volume,  that  stood  apart  from  the  catalogue  of 
human  literature,  and  yet,  in  one  sense,  was  at  its  head, 
had  been  spared.  But  the  Titan  of  innovation, — angel 
or  fiend,  double  in  his  nature,  and  capable  of  deeds  be- 
fitting both  characters, — at  first  shaking  down  only  the 
old  and  rotten  shapes  of  things,  had  now,  as  it  appeared, 
laid  his  terrible  hand  upon  the  main  pillars  which 
supported  the  whole  edifice  of  our  moral  and  spiritual 
state.  The  inhabitants  of  the  earth  had  grown  too  en- 
lightened to  define  their  faith  within  a form  of  words 
or  to  limit  the  spiritual  by  any  analogy  to  our  material 
existence.  Truths  which  the  heavens  trembled  at 
were  now  but  a fable  of  the  world’s  infancy.  There- 
fore, as  the  final  sacrifice  of  human  error,  what  else  re 
mained  to  be  thrown  upon  the  embers  of  that  awful 


180 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


pile  except  the  book  which,  though  a celestial  revela 
tion  to  past  ages,  was  but  a voice  from  a lower  sphere 
as  regarded  the  present  race  of  man  ? It  was  done  ! 
Upon  the  blazing  heap  of  falsehood  and  wornout  truth  — 
things  that  the  earth  had  never  needed,  or  had  ceased 
to  need,  or  had  grown  childishly  weary  of  — fell  the 
ponderous  church  Bible,  the  great  old  volume  that  had 
lain  so  long  on  the  cushion  of  the  pulpit,  and  whence 
the  pastor’s  solemn  voice  had  given  holy  utterance  on 
so  many  a Sabbath  day.  There,  likewise,  fell  the 
family  Bible,  which  the  long-buried  patriarch  had 
read  to  his  children  — in  prosperity  or  sorrow,  by  the 
fireside  and  in  the  summer  shade  of  trees  — and  had 
bequeathed  downward  as  the  heirloom  of  generations. 
There  fell  the  bosom  Bible,  the  little  volume  that  had 
been  the  soul’s  friend  of  some  sorely-tried  child  of  dust, 
who  thence  took  courage,  whether  his  trial  were  for  life 
or  death,  steadfastly  confronting  both  in  the  strong  as- 
surance of  immortality. 

All  these  were  flung  into  the  fierce  and  riotous  blaze  ; 
and  then  a mighty  wind  came  roaring  across  the  plain 
with  a desolate  howl,  as  if  it  were  the  angry  lamenta- 
tion of  the  earth  for  the  loss  of  heaven’s  sunshine  ; and 
it  shook  the  gigantic  pyramid  of  flame  and  scattered 
the  cinders  of  half-consumed  abominations  around  upon 
the  spectators. 

“ This  is  terrible ! ” said  I,  feeling  that  my  cheek 
grew  pale,  and  seeing  a like  change  in  the  visages 
about  me. 

u Be  of  good  courage  yet,”  answered  the  man  with 
whom  I had  so  often  spoken.  He  continued  to  gaze 
steadily  at  the  spectacle  with  a singular  calmness, 


earth’s  holocaust. 


187 


as  if  it  concerned  him  merely  as  an  observer.  44  Be 
of  good  courage,  nor  yet  exult  too  much  ; for  there 
is  far  less  both  of  good  and  evil  in  the  effect  of  this 
bonfire  than  the  world  might  be  willing  to  believe.” 

44  How  can  that  be  ? ” exclaimed  I,  impatiently.  44  Has 
it  not  consumed  every  thing  ? Has  it  not  swallowed  up 
or  melted  down  every  human  or  divine  appendage  of 
our  mortal  state  that  had  substance  enough  to  be  acted 
on  by  fire  ? Will  there  be  any  thing  left  us  to-morrow 
morning  better  or  worse  than  a heap  of  embers  and 
ashes  ? ” 

44  Assuredly  there  will,”  said  my  grave  friend. 
44  Come  hither  to-morrow  morning,  or  whenever  the 
combustible  portion  of  the  pile  shall  be  quite  burned  out, 
and  you  will  find  among  the  ashes  every  thing  really 
valuable  that  you  have  seen  cast  into  the  flames.  Trust 
me,  the  world  of  to-morrow  will  again  enrich  itself 
with  the  gold  and  diamonds  which  have  been  cast  off 
by  the  world  of  to-day.  Not  a truth  is  destroyed  nor 
buried  so  deep  among  the  ashes  but  it  will  be  raked  up 
at  last.” 

This  was  a strange  assurance.  Yet  I felt  inclined  to 
credit  it,  the  more  especially  as  I beheld  among  the 
wallowing  flames  a copy  of  the  Holy  Scriptures,  the 
pages  of  which,  instead  of  being  blackened  into  tinder, 
only  assumed  a more  dazzling  whiteness  as  the  finger 
marks  of  human  imperfection  were  purified  away. 
Certain  marginal  notes  and  commentaries,  it  is  true, 
yielded  to  the  intensity  of  the  fiery  test,  but  without 
detriment  to  the  smallest  syllable  that  had  flamed  from 
the  pen  of  inspiration. 

44  Yes  ; there  is  the  proof  of  what  you  say,”  answered 


188 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


I,  turning  to  the  observer ; “ but  if  only  what  is  evil 
can  feel  the  action  of  the  fire,  then,  surely,  the  confla- 
gration has  been  of  inestimable  utility.  Yet,  if  I un- 
derstand aright,  you  intimate  a doubt  whether  the 
world’s  expectation  of  benefit  would  be  realized  by  it.” 

“ Listen  to  the  talk  of  these  worthies,”  said  he,  point- 
ing to  a group  in  front  of  the  blazing  pile  ; u possibly 
they  may  teach  you  something  useful  without  intend- 
ing it.” 

The  persons  whom  he  indicated  consisted  of  that 
brutal  and  most  earthy  figure  who  had  stood  forth  so 
furiously  in  defence  of  the  gallows,  — the  hangman,  in 
short,  — together  with  the  last  thief  and  the  last  mur- 
derer, all  three  of  whom  were  clustered  about  the  last 
toper.  The  latter  was  liberally  passing  the  brandy 
bottle,  which  he  had  rescued  from  the  general  destruc- 
tion of  wines  and  spirits.  This  little  convivial  party 
seemed  at  the  lowest  pitch  of  despondency,  as  consid- 
ering that  the  purified  world  must  needs  be  utterly  un- 
like the  sphere  that  they  had  hitherto  known,  and  there- 
fore but  a strange  and  desolate  abode  for  gentlemen  of 
their  kidney. 

“ The  best  counsel  for  all  of  us  is,”  remarked  the 
hangman,  w that,  as  soon  as  we  have  finished  the  last 
drop  of  liquor,  I help  you,  my  three  friends,  to  a com- 
fortable end  upon  the  nearest  tree,  and  then  hang  my- 
self on  the  same  bough.  This  is  no  world  for  us  any 
longer.” 

“ Poh,  poh,  my  good  fellows  ! ” said  a dark-complex- 
ioned personage,  who  now  joined  the  group  — his  com- 
plexion was  indeed  fearfully  dark,  and  his  eyes  glowed 
with  a redder  light  than  that  of  the  bonfire  ; “ be  not 


earth’s  holocaust. 


189 


so  cast  down,  my  dear  friends  ; you  shall  see  good  days 
yet.  There  is  one  thing  that  these  wiseacres  have  for- 
gotten to  throw  into  the  fire,  and  without  which  all  the 
rest  of  the  conflagration  is  just  nothing  at  all ; yes, 
though  they  had  burned  the  earth  itself  to  a cinder.” 

u And  what  may  that  be  ? ” eagerly  demanded  the 
last  murderer. 

u What  but  the  human  heart  itself  ? ” said  the  dark- 
visaged  stranger,  with  a portentous  grin.  u And,  unless 
they  hit  upon  some  method  of  purifying  that  foul  cav- 
ern, forth  from  it  will  reissue  all  the  shapes  of  wrong 
and  misery  — the  same  old  shapes  or  worse  ones  — 
which  they  have  taken  such  a vast  deal  of  trouble  to 
consume  to  ashes.  I have  stood  by  this  livelong  night 
and  laughed  in  my  sleeve  at  the  whole  business.  O, 
take  my  word  for  it,  it  will  be  the  old  world  yet ! ” 

This  brief  conversation  supplied  me  with  a theme 
for  lengthened  thought.  How  sad  a truth,  if  true  it 
were,  that  man’s  agelong  endeavor  for  perfection  had 
served  only  to  render  him  the  mockery  of  the  evil 
principle,  from  the  fatal  circumstance  of  an  error  at 
the  very  root  of  the  matter!  The  heart,  the  heart, — 
there  was  the  little  yet  boundless  sphere  wherein  ex- 
isted the  original  wrong  of  which  the  crime  and  misery 
of  this  outward  world  were  merely  types.  Purify  that 
inward  sphere,  and  the  many  shapes  of  evil  that  haunt 
the  outward,  and  which  now  seem  almost  our  only  re- 
alities, will  turn  to  shadowy  phantoms  and  vanish  of 
their  own  accord  ; but  if  we  go  no  deeper  than  the  in- 
tellect,  and  strive,  with  merely  that  feeble  instrument, 
to  discern  and  rectify  what  is  wrong,  our  whole  accom- 


190 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


plishment  will  be  a dream,  so  unsubstantial  that  it  mat- 
ters little  whether  the  bonfire,  which  I have  so  faithfully 
described,  were  what  we  choope  to  call  a real  event  and 
a flame  that  would  scorch  the  finger,  or  only  a phos- 
phoric radiance  and  a parable  of  my  own  brain. 


PASSAGES  FROM  A RELINQUISHED 
WORK. 


AT  HOME. 

From  infancy  I was  under  the  guardianship  of  a vil- 
lage parson,  who  made  me  the  subject  of  daily  prayer 
and  the  sufferer  of  innumerable  stripes,  using  no  dis- 
tinction, as  to  these  marks  of  paternal  love,  between 
myself  and  his  own  three  boys.  The  result,  it  must 
be  owned,  has  been  very  different  in  their  cases  and 
mine,  they  being  all  respectable  men  and  well  settled 
in  life  ; the  eldest  as  the  successor  to  his  father’s  pulpit, 
the  second  as  a physician,  and  the  third  as  a partner  in 
a wholesale  shoe  store  ; while  I,  with  better  prospects 
than  either  of  them,  have  run  the  course  which  this 
volume  will  describe.  Yet  there  is  room  for  doubt 
whether  I should  have  been  any  better  contented  with 
such  success  as  theirs  than  with  my  own  misfortunes 
— at  least,  till  after  my  experience  of  the  latter  had 
made  it  too  late  for  another  trial. 

My  guardian  had  a name  of  considerable  eminence, 
and  fitter  for  the  place  it  occupies  in  ecclesiastical  his- 
tory than  for  so  frivolous  a page  as  mine.  In  his  own 
vicinity,  among  the  lighter  part  of  his  hearers,  he  was 
called  Parson  Thumpcushion,  from  the  very  forcible 

(191) 


192 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


gestures  with  which  he  illustrated  his  doctrines.  Cer- 
tainly, if  his  powers  as  a preacher  were  to  be  estimated 
by  the  damage  done  to  his  pulpit  furniture,  none  of  his 
living  brethren,  and  but  few  dead  ones,  would  have 
been  worthy  even  to  pronounce  a benediction  after 
him.  Such  pounding  and  expounding  the  moment  he 
began  to  grow  warm,  such  slapping  with  his  open 
palm,  thumping  with  his  closed  fist,  and  banging  with 
the  whole  weight  of  the  great  Bible,  convinced  me  that 
he  held,  in  imagination,  either  the  Old  Nick  or  some 
Unitarian  infidel  at  bay,  and  belabored  his  unhappy 
cushion  as  proxy  for  those  abominable  adversaries. 
Nothing  but  this  exercise  of  the  body  while  delivering 
his  sermons  could  have  supported  the  good  parson’s 
health  under  the  mental  toil  which  they  cost  him  in 
composition. 

Though  Parson  Thumpcushion  had  an  upright  heart, 
and  some  called  it  a warm  one,  he  was  invariably 
stern  and  severe,  on  principle,  I suppose,  to  me.  With 
late  justice,  though  early  enough,  even  now,  to  be 
tinctured  with  generosity,  I acknowledge  him  to  have 
been  a good  and  wise  man  after  his  own  fashion.  If 
his  management  failed  as  to  myself,  it  succeeded  with 
his  three  sons  ; nor,  I must  frankly  say,  could  any 
mode  of  education  with  which  it  was  possible  for  him 
to  be  acquainted  have  made  me  much  better  than  what 
I was  or  led  me  to  a happier  fortune  than  the  present. 
He  could  neither  change  the  nature  that  God  gave  me 
nor  adapt  his  own  inflexible  mind  to  my  peculiar  char- 
acter. Perhaps  it  was  my  chief  misfortune  that  I had 
neither  father  nor  mother  alive;  for  parents  have  an 
instinctive  sagacity  in  regard  to  the  welfare  of  their 


PASSAGES  FROM  A RELINQUISHED  WORK.  193 

children,  and  the  child  feels  a confidence  both  in  the 
wisdom  and  affection  of  his  parents  which  he  cannot 
transfer  to  any  delegate  of  their  duties,  however  con- 
scientious. An  orphan’s  fate  is  hard,  be  he  rich  or 
poor.  As  for  Parson  Thumpcushion,  whenever  I see 
the  old  gentleman  in  my  dreams  he  looks  kindly  and 
sorrowfully  at  me,  holding  out  his  hand  as  if  each  had 
something  to  forgive.  With  such  kindness  and  such 
forgiveness,  but  without  the  sorrow,  may  our  next 
meeting  be  ! 

I was  a youth  of  gay  and  happy  temperament,  with 
an  incorrigible  levity  of  spirit,  of  no  vicious  propensi- 
ties, sensible  enough,  but  wayward  and  fanciful.  What 
a character  was  this  to  be  brought  in  contact  with  the 
stern  old  Pilgrim  spirit  of  my  guardian  ! We  were  at 
variance  on  a thousand  -points  ; but  our  chief  and  final 
dispute  arose  from  the  pertinacity  with  which  he  in- 
sisted on  my  adopting  a particular  profession ; while  I, 
being  heir  to  a moderate  competence,  had  avowed  my 
purpose  of  keeping  aloof  from  the  regular  business  of 
life.  This  would  have  been  a dangerous  resolution 
any  where  in  the  world ; it  was  fatal  in  New  England. 
There  is  a grossness  in  the  conceptions  of  my  country- 
men ; they  will  not  be  convinced  that  any  good  thing 
may  consist  with  what  they  call  idleness  ; they  can 
anticipate  nothing  but  evil  of  a young  man  who  neither 
studies  physic,  law,  nor  gospel,  nor  opens  a store,  nor 
takes  to  farming,  but  manifests  an  incomprehensible 
disposition  to  be  satisfied  with  what  his  father  left  him. 
The  principle  is  excellent  in  its  general  influence,  but 
most  miserable  in  its  effect  on  the  few  that  violate  it. 
I had  a quick  sensitiveness  to  public  opinion,  and  felt 
VOL.  II.  13 


194 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


as  if  it  ranked  me  with  the  tavern  haunters  and  town 
paupers  — with  the  drunken  poet  who  hawked  his  own 
Fourth  of  July  odes,  and  the  broken  soldier  who  had 
been  good  for  nothing  since  last  war.  The  conse- 
quence of  all  this  was  a piece  of  lighthearted  desper- 
ation. 

I do  not  over-estimate  my  notoriety  when  I take  it 
for  granted  that  many  of  my  readers  must  have  heard 
of  me  in  the  wild  way  of  life  which  I adopted.  The 
idea  of  becoming  a wandering  story  teller  had  been 
suggested,  a year  or  two  before,  by  an  encounter  with 
several  merry  vagabonds  in  a showman’s  wagon,  where 
they  and  I had  sheltered  ourselves  during  a summer 
shower.  The  project  was  not  more  extravagant  than 
most  which  a young  man  forms.  Stranger  ones  are 
executed  every  day ; and,  not  to  mention  my  proto- 
types in  the  East,  and  the  wandering  orators  and  poets 
whom  my  own  ears  have  heard,  I had  the  example  of 
one  illustrious  itinerant  in  the  other  hemisphere  — of 
Goldsmith,  who  planned  and  performed  his  travels 
through  France  and  Italy  on  a less  promising  scheme 
than  mine.  I took  credit  to  myself  for  various  qualifi- 
cations, mental  and  personal,  suited  to  the  undertaking. 
Besides,  my  mind  had  latterly  tormented  me  for  em- 
ployment, keeping  up  an  irregular  activity  even  in 
sleep,  and  making  me  conscious  that  I must  toil,  if  it 
were  but  in  catching  butterflies.  But  my  chief  mo- 
tives were,  discontent  with  home  and  a bitter  grudge 
against  Parson  Thumpcushion,  who  would  rather  have, 
laid  me  in  my  father’s  tomb  than  seen  me  either  a nov 
elist  or  an  actor,  two  characters  which  I thus  hit  upon 
a method  of  uniting.  After  all  it  was  not  half  so 


PASSAGES  FROM  A RELINQUISHED  WORK.  195 


foolish  as  if  I had  written  romances  instead  of  reciting 

them. 

The  following  pages  will  contain  a picture  of  my 
vagrant  life,  intermixed  with  specimens,  generally  brief 
and  slight,  of  that  great  mass  of  fiction  to  which  I 
gave  existence,  and  which  has  vanished  like  cloud 
shapes.  Besides  the  occasions  when  I sought  a pe- 
cuniary reward,  1 was  accustomed  to  exercise  my  nar- 
rative faculty  wherever  chance  had  collected  a little 
audience  idle  enough  to  listen.  These  rehearsals  were 
useful  in  testing  the  strong  points  of  my  stories  ; and, 
indeed,  the  flow  of  fancy  soon  came  upon  me  so  abun- 
dantly that  its  indulgence  was  its  own  reward,  though 
the  hope  of  praise  also  became  a powerful  incitement. 
Since  I shall  never  feel  the  warm  gush  of  new  thought 
as  I did  then,  let  me  beseech  the  reader  to  believe  that 
my  tales  were  not  always  so  cold  as  he  may  find  them 
now.  With  each  specimen  will  be  given  a sketch  of 
the  circumstances  in  which  the  story  was  told.  Thus 
my  airdrawn  pictures  will  be  set  in  frames  perhaps 
more  valuable  than  the  pictures  themselves,  since  they 
will  be  embossed  with  groups  of  characteristic  figures, 
amid  the  lake  and  mountain  scenery,  the  villages  and 
fertile  fields,  of  our  native  land.  But  I write  the  book 
for  the  sake  of  its  moral,  which  many  a dreaming 
youth  may  profit  by,  though  it  is  the  experience  of  a 
wandering  story  teller. 

A FLIGHT  IN  THE  FOG. 

I set  out  on  my  rambles  one  morning  in  June  about 
sunrise.  The  day  promised  to  be  fair,  though  at  that 


196 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


early  hour  a heavy  mist  lay  along  the  earth  and  set- 
tled in  minute  globules  on  the  folds  of  my  clothes,  so 
that  I looked  precisely  as  if  touched  with  a hoarfrost. 
The  sky  was  quite  obscured,  and  the  trees  and  houses 
invisible  till  they  grew  out  of  the  fog  as  I came  close 
upon  them.  There  is  a hill  towards  the  west  whence 
the  road  goes  abruptly  down,  holding  a level  course 
through  the  village  and  ascending  an  eminence  on  the 
other  side,  behind  which  it  disappears.  The  whole 
view  comprises  an  extent  of  half  a mile.  Here  I 
paused ; and,  while  gazing  through  the  misty  veil,  it 
partially  rose  and  swept  away  with  so  sudden  an  effect 
that  a gray  cloud  seemed  to  have  taken  the  aspect  of  a 
small  white  town.  A thin  vapor  being  still  diffused 
through  the  atmosphere,  the  wreaths  and  pillars  of  fog, 
whether  hung  in  air  or  based  on  earth,  appeared  not 
less  substantial  than  the  edifices,  and  gave  their  own 
indistinctness  to  the  whole.  It  was  singular  that  such 
an  unromantic  scene  should  look  so  visionary. 

Half  of  the  parson’s  dwelling  was  a dingy  white 
house,  and  half  of  it  was  a cloud ; but  Squire  Moody’s 
mansion,  the  grandest  in  the  village,  was  wholly  visi- 
ble, even  the  lattice  work  of  the  balcony  under  the 
front  window  ; while  in  another  place  only  two  red 
chimneys  were  seen  above^the  mist,  appertaining  to  my 
own  paternal  residence,  then  tenanted  by  strangers.  I 
could  not  remember  those  with  whom  I had  dwelt  there 
not  even  my  mother.  The  brick  edifice  of  the  bank 
was  in  the  clouds  ; the  foundations  of  what  was  to  be  a 
great  block  of  buildings  had  vanished,  ominously,  as  it 
proved  ; the  dry  goods  store  of  Mr.  Nightingale  seemed 
a doubtful  concern  ; and  Dominicus  Pike’s  tobacco 


PASSAGES  PROM  A RELINQUISHED  WORK.  197 

manufactory  an  affair  of  smoke,  except  the  splendid 
image  of  an  Indian  chief  in  front.  The  white  spire  of 
the  meeting  house  ascended  out  of  the  densest  heap  of 
vapor,  as  if  that  shadowy  base  were  its  only  support ; 
or,  to  give  a truer  interpretation,  the  steeple  was  the 
emblem  of  Religion,  enveloped  in  mystery  below,  yet 
pointing  to  a cloudless  atmosphere,  and  catching  the 
brightness  of  the  east  on  its  gilded  vane. 

As  I beheld  these  objects,  and  the  dewy  street,  with 
grassy  intervals  and  a border  of  trees  between  the 
wheel  track  and  the  sidewalks,  all  so  indistinct,  and  not 
to  be  traced  without  an  effort,  the  whole  seemed  more 
like  memory  than  reality.  I would  have  imagined  that 
years  had  already  passed,  and  I was  far  away,  con- 
templating that  dim  picture  of  my  native  place,  which 
I should  retain  in  my  mind  through  the  mist  of  time. 
No  tears  fell  from  my  eyes  among  the  dewdrops  of  the 
morning ; nor  does  it  occur  to  me  that  I heaved  a sigh. 
In  truth,  I had  never  felt  such  a delicious  excitement 
nor  known  what  freedom  was  till  that  moment  when  I 
gave  up  my  home  and  took  the  whole  world  in  exchange, 
fluttering  the  wings  of  my  spirit  as  if  I would  have 
flown  from  one  star  to  another  through  the  universe.  I 
waved  my  hand  towards  the  dusky  village,  bade  it  a 
joyous  farewell,  and  turned  away  to  follow  any  path 
but  that  which  might  lead  me  back.  Never  was 
Childe  Harold’s  sentiment  adopted  in  a spirit  more 
unlike  his  own. 

Naturally  enough,  I thought  of  Don  Quixote.  Re- 
collecting how  the  knight  and  Sancho  had  watched  for 
auguries  when  they  took  the  road  to  Toboso,  I began, 
between  jest  and  earnest,  to  feel  a similar  anxiety.  It 


198 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


was  gratified,  and  by  a more  poetical  phenomenon  than 
the  braying  of  the  dappled  ass  or  the  neigh  of  Rosi- 
nante.  The  sun,  then  just  above  the  horizon,  shone 
faintly  through  the  fog,  and  formed  a species  of  rain- 
bow in  the  west,  bestriding  my  intended  road  like  a 
gigantic  portal.  I had  never  known  before  that  a bow 
could  be  generated  between  the  sunshine  and  the  morn- 
ing mist.  It  had  no  brilliancy,  no  perceptible  hues, 
but  was  a mere  unpainted  framework,  as  white  and 
ghostlike  as  the  lunar  rainbow,  which  is  deemed  omi- 
nous of  evil.  But,  with  a light  heart  to  which  all 
omens  were  propitious,  I advanced  beneath  the  misty 
archway  of  futurity. 

I had  determined  not  to  enter  on  my  profession 
within  a hundred  miles  of  home,  and  then  to  cover 
myself  with  a fictitious  name.  The  first  precaution 
was  reasonable  enough,  as  otherwise  Parson  Thump- 
cushion  might  have  put  an  untimely  catastrophe  to  my 
story ; but  as  nobody  would  be  much  affected  by  my 
disgrace,  and  all  was  to  be  suffered  in  my  own  person, 
I know  not  why  I cared  about  a name.  For  a week  or 
two  I travelled  almost  at  random,  seeking  hardly  any 
guidance  except  the  whirling  of  a leaf  at  some  turn  of 
the  road,  or  the  green  bough  that  beckoned  me,  or  the 
naked  branch  that  pointed  its  withered  finger  onward. 
All  my  care  was  to  be  farther  from  home  each  night 
than  the  preceding  morning. 

A FELLOW-TRAVELLER. 

One  day  at  noontide,  when  the  sun  had  burst  sud- 
denly out  of  a cloud  and  threatened  to  dissolve  me,  I 


PASSAGES  FROM  A RELINQUISHED  WORK.  199 


looked  round  for  shelter,  whether  of  tavern,  cottage, 
barn,  or  shady  tree.  The  first  which  offered  itself  was 
a wood  — not  a forest,  but  a trim  plantation  of  young 
oaks,  growing  just  thick  enough  to  keep  the  mass  of 
sunshine  out,  while  they  admitted  a few  stragglings 
beams,  and  thus  produced  the  most  cheerful  gloom  im- 
aginable. A brook,  so  small  and  clear,  and  apparent- 
ly so  cool,  that  I wanted  to  drink  it  up,  ran  under  the 
road  through  a little  arch  of  stone  without  once  meet- 
ing the  sun  in  its  passage  from  the  shade  on  one  side 
to  the  shade  on  the  other.  As  there  was  a stepping- 
place  over  the  stone  wall  and  a path  along  the  rivulet, 
I followed  it  and  discovered  its  source  — a spring  gush- 
ing out  of  an  old  barrel. 

In  this  pleasant  spot  I saw  a light  pack  suspended 
from  the  branch  of  a tree,  a stick  leaning  against  the 
trunk,  and  a person  seated  on  the  grassy  verge  of  the 
spring,  with  his  back  towards  me.  He  was  a slender 
figure,  dressed  in  black  broadcloth,  which  was  none  of 
the  finest  nor  very  fashionably  cut.  On  hearing  my 
footsteps  he  started  up  rather  nervously,  and,  turning 
round,  showed  the  face  of  a young  man  about  my  own 
age,  with  his  finger  in  a volume  which  he  had  been 
reading  till  my  intrusion.  His  book  was  evidently  a 
pocket  Bible.  Though  I piqued  myself  at  that  period 
on  my  great  penetration  into  people’s  characters  and 
pursuits,  I could  not  decide  whether  this  young  maa  in 
black  were  an  unfledged  divine  from  Andover,  a col- 
lege student,  or  preparing  for  college  at  some  acade- 
my. In  either  case  I would  quite  as  willingly  have 
found  a merrier  companion  ; such,  for  instance,  as  the 


200 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


comedian  with  whom  Gil  Bias  shared  his  dinner  beside 
a fountain  in  Spain. 

After  a nod,  which  was  duly  returned,  I made  a 
goblet  of  oak  leaves,  filled  and  emptied  it  two  or  three 
times,  and  then  remarked,  to  hit  the  stranger’s  classi- 
cal associations,  that  this  beautiful  fountain  ought  to 
flow  from  an  urn  instead  of  an  old  barrel.  He  did 
not  show  that  he  understood  the  allusion,  and  replied 
very  briefly,  with  a shyness  that  was  quite  out  of  place 
between  persons  who  met  in  such  circumstances.  Had 
he  treated  my  next  observation  in  the  same  way,  we 
should  have  parted  without  another  word. 

“It  is  very  singular,”  said  I,  — “though  doubtless 
there  are  good  reasons  for  it,  — that  Nature  should  pro- 
vide drink  so  abundantly,  and  lavish  it  every  where  by 
the  roadside,  but  so  seldom  any  thing  to  eat.  Why 
should  not  we  find  a loaf  of  bread  on  this  tree  as  well 
as  a barrel  of  good  liquor  at  the  foot  of  it  ? ” 

“ There  is  a loaf  of  bread  on  the  tree,”  replied  the 
stranger,  without  even  smiling  at  a coincidence  which 
made  me  laugh.  “ I have  something  to  eat  in  my 
bundle ; and,  if  you  can  make  a dinner  with  me,  you 
shall  be  welcome.” 

“ I accept  your  offer  with  pleasure,”  said  I.  “ A 
pilgrim  such  as  I am  must  not  refuse  a providential 
meal.” 

,4The  young  man  had  risen  to  take  his  bundle  from 
the  branch  of  the  tree,  but  now  turned  round  and  re- 
garded me  with  great  earnestness,  coloiing  deeply  at 
the  same  time.  However,  he  said  nothing,  and  pro- 
duced part  of  a loaf  of  bread  and  some  cheese,  the 


PASSAGES  FROM  A RELINQUISHED  WORK.  201 

former  being  evidently  home  baked,  though  some  days 
out  of  the  oven.  The  fare  was  good  enough,  with  a 
real  welcome,  such  as  his  appeared  to  be.  After 
spreading  these  articles  on  the  stump  of  a tree,  he 
proceeded  to  ask  a blessing  on  our  food,  an  unexpect- 
ed ceremony,  and  quite  an  impressive  one  at  our  wood- 
land table,  with  the  fountain  gushing  beside  us  and  the 
bright  sky  glimmering  through  the  boughs  ; nor  did  his 
brief  petition  affect  me  less  because  his  embarrass- 
ment made  his  voice  tremble.  At  the  end  of  the  meal 
he  returned  thanks  with  the  same  tremulous  fervor. 

He  felt  a natural  kindness  for  me  after  thus  relieving 
my  necessities,  and  showed  it  by  becoming  less  re- 
served. On  my  part,  I professed  never  to  have  rel- 
ished a dinner  better ; and,  in  requital  of  the  stranger’s 
hospitality,  solicited  the  pleasure  of  his  company  to 
supper. 

44  Where  ? At  your  home  ? ” asked  he. 

41  Yes,”  said  I,  smiling. 

44  Perhaps  our  roads  are  not  the  same,”  observed  he. 

44  O,  I can  take  any  road  but  one,  and  yet  not  miss 
my  way,”  answered  I.  44  This  morning  I breakfasted 
at  home  ; I shall  sup  at  home  to-night ; and  a moment 
ago  I dined  at  home.  To  be  sure,  there  was  a certain 
place  which  I called  home  ; but  I have  resolved  not  to 
see  it  again  till  I have  been  quite  round  the  globe  and 
enter  the  street  on  the  east  as  I left  it  on  the  west.  In 
the  mean  time,  I have  a home  every  where,  or  nowhere, 
just  as  you  please  to  take  it.” 

44  Nowhere,  then  ; for  this  transitory  world  is  not 
our  home,”  said  the  young  man,  with  solemnity.  44  We 


202 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


are  all  pilgrims  and  wanderers ; but  it  is  strange  that 
we  two  should  meet.” 

I inquired  the  meaning  of  this  remark,  but  could  ob- 
tain no  satisfactory  reply.  But  we  had  eaten  salt  to- 
gether; and  it  was  right  that  we  should  form  acquaint- 
ance after  that  ceremony  as  the  Arabs  of  the  desert 
do,  especially  as  he  had  learned  something  about  my- 
self, and  the  courtesy  of  the  country  entitled  me  to  as 
much  information  in  return.  I asked  whither  he  was 
travelling. 

“ I do  not  know,”  said  he  ; “ but  God  knows.” 

“ That  is  strange  ! ” exclaimed  I ; “ not  that  God 
should  know  it,  but  that  you  should  not.  And  how  is 
your  road  to  be  pointed  out  ? ” 

“ Perhaps  by  an  inward  conviction,”  he  replied, 
looking  sideways  at  me  to  discover  whether  I smiled  ; 
u perhaps  by  an  outward  sign.” 

“ Then,  believe  me,”  said  I,  “ the  outward  sign  is 
already  granted  you,  and  the  inward  conviction  ought 
to  follow.  We  are  told  of  pious  men  in  old  times  who 
committed  themselves  to  the  care  of  Providence,  and 
saw  the  manifestation  of  its  will  in  the  slightest  cir- 
cumstances, as  in  the  shooting  of  a star,  the  flight  of  a 
bird,  or  the  course  taken  by  some  brute  animal.  Some- 
times even  a stupid  ass  was  their  guide.  May  not  I be 
as  good  a one  ? ” 

“ I do  not  know,”  said  the  pilgrim,  with  perfect  sim- 
plicity. 

We  did,  however,  follow  the  same  road,  and  were 
not  overtaken,  as  I partly  apprehended,  by  the  keepers 
of  any  lunatic  asylum  in  pursuit  of  a stray  patient. 


PASSAGES  FROM  A RELINQUISHED  WORK.  203 

Perhaps  the  stranger  felt  as  much  doubt  of  my  sanity 
as  I did  of  his,  though  certainly  with  less  justice,  since 
1 was  fully  aware  of  my  own  extravagances*  while  he 
acted  as  wildly,  and  deemed  it  heavenly  wisdom.  We 
were  a singular  couple,  strikingly  contrasted,  yet  cu- 
riously assimilated,  each  of  us  remarkable  enough  by 
himself,  and  doubly  so  in  the  other’s  company.  With- 
out any  formal  compact,  we  kept  together  day  after 
day  till  our  union  appeared  permanent.  Even  had  I 
seen  nothing  to  love  and  admire  in  him,  I could  never 
have  thought  of  deserting  one  who  needed  me  continu- 
ally ; for  I never  knew  a person,  not  even  a woman,  so 
unfit  to  roam  the  world  in  solitude  as  he  was  — so 
painfully  shy,  so  easily  discouraged  by  slight  obstacles, 
and  so  often  depressed  by  a weight  within  himself. 

I was  now  far  from  my  native  place,  but  had  not  yet 
stepped  before  the  public.  A slight  tremor  seized  me 
whenever  I thought  of  relinquishing  the  immunities  of 
a private  character,  and  giving  every  man,  and  for 
money  too,  the  right,  which  no  man  yet  possessed,  of 
treating  me  with  open  scorn.  But  about  a week  after 
contracting  the  above  alliance  I made  my  bow  to  an 
audience  of  nine  persons,  seven  of  whom  hissed  me  in 
a very  disagreeable  manner,  and  not  without  good 
cause.  Indeed,  the  failure  was  so  signal  that  it  would 
have  been  mere  swindling  to  retain  the  money,  which 
had  been  paid  on  my  implied  contract  to  give  its  value 
of  amusement.  So  I called  in  the  doorkeeper,  bade 
him  refund  the  whole  receipts,  a mighty  sum,  and  was 
gratified  with  a round  of  applause  by  way  of  offset  to 
the  hisses.  This  event  would  have  looked  most  horri- 
ble in  anticipation  — a thing  to  make  a man  shoot 


204 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


himself,  or  run  amuck,  or  hide  himself  in  caverns 
where  he  might  not  see  his  own  burning  blush  ; but  the 
reality  was  not  so  very  hard  to  bear.  It  is  a fact  that  1 
was  more  deeply  grieved  by  an  almost  parallel  misfor- 
tune which  happened  to  my  companion  on  the  same 
evening.  In  my  own  behalf  I was  angry  and  excited, 
not  depressed  ; my  blood  ran  quick,  my  spirits  rose 
buoyantly,  and  I had  never  felt  such  a confidence  of 
future  success  and  determination  to  achieve  it  as  at 
that  trying  moment.  I resolved  to  persevere,  if  it  were 
only  to  wring  the  reluctant  praise  from  my  enemies. 

Hitherto  I had  immensely  underrated  the  difficulties 
of  my  idle  trade ; now  I recognized  that  it  demanded 
nothing  short  of  my  whole  powers,  cultivated  to  the 
utmost,  and  exerted  with  the  same  prodigality  as  if  I 
were  speaking  for  a great  party  or  for  the  nation  at 
large  on  the  floor  of  the  Capitol.  No  talent  or  attain- 
ment could  come  amiss  ; every  thing,  indeed,  was 
requisite  — wide  observation,  varied  knowledge,  deep 
thoughts,  and  sparkling  ones ; pathos  and  levity,  and  a 
mixture  of  both,  like  sunshine  in  a raindrop  ; lofty  im- 
agination, veiling  itself  in  the  garb  of  common  life ; 
and  the  practised  art  which  alone  could  render  these 
gifts,  and  more  than  these,  available.  Not  that  I ever 
hoped  to  be  thus  qualified.  But  my  despair  was  no  ig- 
noble one  ; for,  knowing  the  impossibility  of  satisfying 
myself,  even  should  the  world  be  satisfied,  I did  my 
best  to  overcome  it ; investigated  the  causes  of  every 
defect ; and  strove,  with  patient  stubbornness,  to  remove 
them  in  the  next  attempt.  It  is  one  of  my  few  sources 
of  pride,  that,  ridiculous  as  the  object  was,  I followed 
it  up  with  the  firmness  and  energy  of  a man. 


PASSAGES  FROM  A RELINQUISHED  WORK. 


205 


I manufactured  a great  variety  of  plots  and  skeletons 
of  tales,  and  kept  them  ready  for  use,  leaving  the  filling 
up  to  the  inspiration  of  the  moment ; though  I cannot 
remember  ever  to  have  told  a tale  which  did  not  vary 
considerably  from  my  preconceived  idea,  and  acquire 
a novelty  of  aspect  as  often  as  I repeated  it.  Oddly 
enough,  my  success  was  generally  in  proportion  to  the 
difference  between  the  conception  and  accomplishment. 
I provided  two  or  more  commencements  and  catas- 
trophes to  many  of  the  tales  — a happy  expedient,  sug- 
gested by  the  double  sets  of  sleeves  and  trimmings 
which  diversified  the  suits  in  Sir  Piercy  Shafton’s 
wardrobe.  But  my  best  efforts  had  a unity,  a whole- 
ness, and  a separate  character  that  did  not  admit  of 
this  sort  of  mechanism. 

THE  VILLAGE  THEATRE. 

About  the  first  of  September  my  fellow-traveller 
and  myself  arrived  at  a country  town,  where  a small 
company  of  actors,  on  their  return  from  a summer’s 
campaign  in  the  British  provinces,  were  giving  a series 
of  dramatic  exhibitions.  A moderately  sized  hall  of 
the  tavern  had  been  converted  into  a theatre.  The  per- 
formances that  evening  were,  The  Heir  at  Law,  and 
No  Song,  no  Supper,  with  the  recitation  of  Alexander’s 
Feast  between  the  play  and  farce.  The  house  was 
thin  and  dull.  But  the  next  day  there  appeared  to  be 
brighter  prospects,  the  playbills  announcing  at  every 
corner,  on  the  town  pump,  and  — awful  sacrilege  ! — on 
the  very  door  of  the  meeting  house,  an  Unprecedented 
Attraction  ! After  setting  forth  the  ordinary  entertain- 


206 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


ments  of  a theatre,  the  public  were  informed,  in  the 
hugest  type  that  the  printing  office  could  supply,  that 
the  manager  had  been  fortunate  enough  to  accomplish 
an  engagement  with  the  celebrated  Story  Teller.  He 
would  make  his  first  appearance  that  evening,  and  re- 
cite his  famous  tale  of  Mr.  Higginbotham’s  Catas- 
trophe, which  had  been  received  with  rapturous  ap- 
plause by  audiences  in  all  the  principal  cities.  This 
outrageous  flourish  of  trumpets,  be  it  known,  was 
wholly  unauthorized  by  me,  who  had  merely  made  an 
engagement  for  a single  evening,  without  assuming  any 
more  celebrity  than  the  little  I possessed.  As  for  the 
tale,  it  could  hardly  have  been  applauded  by  rapturous 
audiences,  being  as  yet  an  unfilled  plot ; nor  even  when 
I stepped  upon  the  stage  was  it  decided  whether  Mr. 
Higginbotham  should  live  or  die. 

In  two  or  three  places,  underneath  the  flaming  bills 
which  announced  the  Story  Teller,  was  pasted  a small 
slip  of  paper,  giving  notice,  in  tremulous  characters, 
of  a religious  meeting  to  be  held  at  the  school  house, 
where,  with  divine  permission,  Eliakim  Abbott  would 
address  sinners  on  the  welfare  of  their  immortal 
souls. 

In  the  evening,  after  the  commencement  of  the  trage- 
dy of  Douglas,  I took  a ramble  through  the  town  to 
quicken  my  ideas  by  active  motion.  My  spirits  were 
good,  with  a certain  glow  of  mind  which  I had  already 
learned  to  depend  upon  as  the  sure  prognostic  of  suc- 
cess. Passing  a small  and  solitary  school  house, 
where  a light  was  burning  dimly  and  a few  people 
were  entering  the  door,  I went  in  with  them,  and  saw 
my  friend  Eliakim  at  the  desk.  He  had  collected 


PASSAGES  FROM  A RELINQUISHED  WORK.  207 

about  fifteen  hearers,  mostly  females.  Just  as  I en- 
tered he  was  beginning  to  pray  in  accents  so  low  and 
interrupted  that  he  seemed  to  doubt  the  reception  of 
his  efforts  both  with  God  and  man.  There  was  room 
for  distrust  in  regard  to  the  latter.  At  the  conclusion 
of  the  prayer  several  of  the  little  audience  went  out, 
leaving  him  to  begin  his  discourse  under  such  discour- 
aging circumstances,  added  to  his  natural  and  agoni- 
zing diffidence.  Knowing  that  my  presence  on  these 
occasions  increased  his  embarrassment,  I had  stationed 
myself  in  a dusky  place  near  the  door,  and  now  stole 
softly  out. 

On  my  return  to  the  tavern  the  tragedy  was  already 
concluded  ; and,  being  a feeble  one  in  itself  and  indif- 
ferently performed,  it  left  so  much  the  better  chance 
for  the  Story  Teller.  The  bar  was  thronged  with  cus- 
tomers, the  toddy  stick  keeping  a continual  tattoo; 
while  in  the  hall  there  was  a broad,  deep,  buzz- 
ing sound,  with  an  occasional  peal  of  impatient  thun- 
der — all  symptoms  of  an  overflowing  house  and  an 
eager  audience.  I drank  a glass  of  wine  and  water, 
and  stood  at  the  side  scene  conversing  with  a young 
person  of  doubtful  sex.  If  a gentleman,  how  could  he 
have  performed  the  singing  girl  the  night  before  in  No 
Song,  no  Supper  ? Or,  if  a lady,  why  did  she  enact 
Young  Norval,  and  now  wear  a green  coat  and 
white  pantaloons  in  the  character  of  Little  Pickle  ? 
In  either  case  the  dress  was  pretty  and  the  wearer  be- 
witching ; so  that,  at  the  proper  moment,  I stepped  for- 
ward with  a gay  heart  and  a bold  one  ; while  the 
orchestra  played  a tune  that  had  resounded  at  many  a 
country  ball,  and  the  curtain,  as  it  rose,  discovered 


208 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


something  like  a country  bar  room.  Such  a scene 
was  well  enough  adapted  to  such  a tale. 

The  orchestra  of  our  little  theatre  consisted  of  two 
fiddles  and  a clarinet ; but,  if  the  whole  harmony  of 
the  Tremont  had  been  there,  it  might  have  swelled  in 
vain  beneath  the  tumult  of  applause  that  greeted  me. 
The  good  people  of  the  town,  knowing  that  the  world 
contained  innumerable  persons  of  celebrity  undreamed 
of  by  them,  took  it  for  granted  that  I was  one,  and  that 
their  roar  of  welcome  was  but  a feeble  echo  of  those 
which  had  thundered  around  me  in  lofty  theatres. 
Such  an  enthusiastic  uproar  was  never  heard.  Each 
person  seemed  a Briareus  clapping  a hundred  hands, 
besides  keeping  his  feet  and  several  cudgels  in  play 
with  stamping  and  thumping  on  the  floor ; while  the 
ladies  flourished  their  white  cambric  handkerchiefs, 
intermixed  with  yellow  and  red  bandanna,  like  the 
flags  of  different  nations.  After  such  a salutation,  the 
celebrated  Story  Teller  felt  almost  ashamed  to  produce 
so  humble  an  affair  as  Mr.  Higginbotham’s  Catastrophe. 

This  story  was  originally  more  dramatic  than  as 
there  presented,  and  afforded  good  scope  for  mimicry 
and  buffoonery,  neither  of  which,  to  my  shame,  did  1 
spare.  I never  knew  the  u magic  of  a name  ” till  I 
used  that  of  Mr.  Higginbotham.  Often  as  I repeated 
it,  there  were  louder  bursts  of  merriment  than  those 
which  responded  to  what,  in  my  opinion,  were  more 
legitimate  strokes  of  humor.  The  success  of  the  piece 
was  incalculably  heightened  by  a stiff  cue  of  horse 
hair,  which  Little  Pickle,  in  the  spirit  of  that  mischief- 
loving  character,  had  fastened  to  my  collar,  where, 
unknown  to  me,  it  kept  making  the  queerest  gestures 


PASSAGES  FROM  A RELINQUISHED  WORK.  209 


of  its  own  in  correspondence  with  all  mine.  The  au- 
dience, supposing  that  some  enormous  joke  was  ap- 
pended to  this  long  tail  behind,  were  ineffably  delighted, 
and  gave  way  to  such  a tumult  of  approbation  that, 
just  as  the  story  closed,  the  benches  broke  beneath 
them  and  left  one  whole  row  of  my  admirers  on  the 
floor.  Even  in  that  predicament  they  continued  their 
applause.  In  after  times,  when  I had  grown  a bitter 
moralizer,  I took  this  scene  for  an  example  how  much 
of  fame  is  humbug  ; how  much  the  meed  of  what  our 
better  nature  blushes  at ; how  much  an  accident ; how 
much  bestowed  on  mistaken  principles  ; and  how  small 
and  poor  the  remnant.  From  pit  and  boxes  there  was 
now  a universal  call  for  the  Stoiy  Teller. 

That  celebrated  personage  came  not  when  they  did 
call  to  him.  As  I left  the  stage,  the  landlord,  being 
also  the  postmaster,  had  given  me  a letter  with  the 
postmark  of  my  native  village,  and  directed  to  my 
assumed  name  in  the  stiff  old  handwriting  of  Parson 
Thumpcushion.  Doubtless  he  had  heard  of  the  rising 
renown  of  the  Story  Teller,  and  conjectured  at  once 
that  such  a nondescript  luminary  could  be  no  other 
than  his  lost  ward.  His  epistle,  though  I never  read 
it,  affected  me  most  painfully.  I seemed  to  see  the 
Puritanic  figure  of  my  guardian  standing  among  the 
fripperies  of  the  theatre  and  pointing  to  the  play- 
ers,— the  fantastic  and  effeminate  men,  the  painted 
women,  the  giddy  girl  in  boy’s  clothes,  merrier  than 
modest,  — pointing  to  these  with  solemn  ridicule,  and 
eying  me  with  stern  rebuke.  His  image  was  a type 
of  the  austere  duty,  and  they  of  the  vanities  of  life. 

I hastened  with  the  letter  to  my  chamber  and  held  it 
VOL.  II.  14 


210 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


unopened  in  my  hand  while  the  applause  of  my  buf- 
foonery yet  sounded  through  the  theatre.  Another 
train  of  thought  came  over  me.  The  stem  old  man 
appeared  again,  but  now  with  the  gentleness  of  sor- 
row, softening  his  authority  with  love  as  a father  might, 
and  even  bending  his  venerable  head,  as  if  to  say  that 
my  errors  had  an  apology  in  his  own  mistaken  disci- 
pline. 1 strode  twice  across  the  chamber,  then  held 
the  letter  in  the  flame  of  the  candle,  and  beheld  it  con- 
sume unread.  It  is  fixed  in  my  mind,  and  was  so  at 
the  time,  that  he  had  addressed  me  in  a style  of  pater- 
nal wisdom,  and  love,  and  reconciliation  which  I could 
not  have  resisted  had  I but  risked  the  trial.  The 
thought  still  haunts  me  that  then  I made  my  irrevoca- 
ble choice  between  good  and  evil  fate. 

Meanwhile,  as  this  occurrence  had  disturbed  my 
mind  and  indisposed  me  to  the  present  exercise  of  my 
profession,  I left  the  town,  in  spite  of  a laudatory  cri- 
tique in  the  newspaper,  and  untempted  by  the  liberal 
offers  of  the  manager.  As  we  walked  onward,  follow- 
ing the  same  road,  on  two  such  different  errands,  Elia- 
kim  groaned  in  spirit,  and  labored  with  tears  to  con- 
vince me  of  the  guilt  and  madness  of  my  life. 


SKETCHES  FROM  MEMORY. 


THE  NOTCH  OF  THE  WHITE  MOUNTAINS. 

It  was  now  the  middle  of  September.  We  had  come 
since  sunrise  from  Bartlett,  passing  up  through  the 
valley  of  the  Saco,  which  extends  between  mountain- 
ous walls,  sometimes  with  a steep  ascent,  but  often  as 
level  as  a church  aisle.  All  that  day  and  two  pre- 
ceding ones  we  had  been  loitering  towards  the  heart 
of  the  White  Mountains  — those  old  crystal  hills,  whose 
mysterious  brilliancy  had  gleamed  upon  our  distant 
wanderings  before  we  thought  of  visiting  them.  Height 
after  height  had  risen  and  towered  one  above  another 
till  the  clouds  began  to  hang  below  the  peaks.  Down 
their  slopes  were  the  red  pathways  of  the  slides,  those 
avalanches  of  earth,  stones,  and  trees,  which  descend 
into  the  hollows,  leaving  vestiges  of  their  track  hardly 
to  be  effaced  by  the  vegetation  of  ages.  We  had  moun- 
tains behind  us  and  mountains  on  each  side,  and  a group 
of  mightier  ones  ahead.  Still  our  road  went  up  along 
the  Saco,  right  towards  the  centre  of  that  group,  as  if 
to  climb  above  the  clouds  in  its  passage  to  the  farther 
region. 

In  old  times  the  settlers  used  to  be  astounded  by  the 
inroads  of  the  northern  Indians,  coming  down  upon 

(211) 


212 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


them  from  this  mountain  rampart  through  some  defile 
known  only  to  themselves.  It  is,  indeed,  a wondrous 
path,  A demon,  it  might  be  fancied,  or  one  of  the 
Titans,  was  travelling  up  the  valley,  elbowing  the 
heights  carelessly  aside  as  he  passed,  till  at  length  a 
great  mountain  took  its  stand  directly  across  his  intended 
road.  He  tarries  not  for  such  an  obstacle,  but,  rending 
it  asunder  a thousand  feet  from  peak  to  base,  discloses 
its  treasures  of  hidden  minerals,  its  sunless  waters,  all 
the  secrets  of  the  mountain’s  inmost  heart,  with  a 
mighty  fracture  of  rugged  precipices  on  each  side. 
This  is  the  Notch  of  the  White  Hills.  Shame  on  me 
that  I have  attempted  to  describe  it  by  so  mean  an 
image  — feeling,  as  I do,  that  it  is  one  of  those  sym- 
bolic scenes  which  lead  the  mind  to  the  sentiment, 
though  not  to  the  conception,  of  Omnipotence. 

* # # * # 

We  had  now  reached  a narrow  passage,  which 
showed  almost  the  appearance  of  having  been  cut  by 
human  strength  and  artifice  in  the  solid  rock.  There 
was  a wall  of  granite  on  each  side,  high  and  precip- 
itous, especially  on  our  right,  and  so  smooth  that  a 
few  evergreens  could  hardly  find  foothold  enough  to 
grow  there.  This  is  the  entrance,  or,  in  the  direction 
we  were  going,  the  extremity,  of  the  romantic  defile  of 
the  Notch.  Before  emerging  from  it,  the  rattling  of 
wheels  approached  behind  us,  and  a stage  coach 
rumbled  out  of  the  mountain,  with  seats  on  top  and 
trunks  behind,  and  a smart  driver,  in  a drab  great- 
coat, touching  the  wheel  horses  with  the  whip  stock 
and  reigning  in  the  leaders.  To  my  mind  there  was 
a sort  of  poetry  in  such  an  incident,  hardly  inferior  to 


SKETCHES  FROM  MEMORY. 


213 


what  would  have  accompanied  the  painted  array  of 
an  Indian  war  party  gliding  forth  from  the  same  wild 
chasm.  All  the  passengers,  except  a very  fat  lady  on 
the  back  seat,  had  alighted.  One  was  a mineralogist, 
a scientific,  green-spectacled  figure  in  black,  bearing  a 
heavy  hammer,  with  which  he  did  great  damage  to 
the  precipices,  and  put  the  fragments  in  his  pocket. 
Another  was  a well-dressed  young  man,  who  carried 
an  opera  glass  set  in  gold,  and  seemed  to  be  making 
a quotation  from  some  of  Byron’s  rhapsodies  on  moun- 
tain scenery.  There  was  also  a trader,  returning  from 
Portland  to  the  upper  part  of  Vermont ; and  a fair 
young  girl,  with  a very  faint  bloom  like  one  of  those 
pale  and  delicate  flowers  which  sometimes  occur 
among  alpine  cliffs. 

They  disappeared,  and  we  followed  them,  passing 
through  a deep  pine  forest,  which  for  some  miles 
allowed  us  to  see  nothing  but  its  own  dismal  shade. 
Towards  nightfall  we  reached  a level  amphitheatre, 
surrounded  by  a great  rampart  of  hills,  which  shut  out 
the  sunshine  long  before  it  left  the  external  world.  It 
was  here  that  we  obtained  our  first  view,  except  at  a 
distance,  of  the  principal  group  of  mountains.  They  are 
majestic,  and  even  awful,  when  contemplated  in  a proper 
mood,  yet,  by  their  breadth  of  base  and  the  long 
ridges  which  support  them,  give  the  idea  of  immense 
bulk  rather  than  of  towering  height.  Mount  Wash- 
ington, indeed,  looked  near  to  heaven  : he  was  white 
with  snow  a mile  downward,  and  had  caught  the  only 
cloud  that  was  sailing  through  the  atmosphere  to  veil 
his  head.  Let  us  forget  the  other  names  of  American 
statesmen  that  have  been  stamped  upon  these  hills, 


214 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


but  still  call  the  loftiest  Washington.  Mountains 
are  Earth’s  undecaying  monuments.  They  must  stand 
while  she  endures,  and  never  should  be  consecrated  to 
the  mere  great  men  of  their  own  age  and  country,  but 
to  the  mighty  ones  alone,  whose  glory  is  universal,  and 
whom  all  time  will  render  illustrious. 

The  air,  not  often  sultry  in  this  elevated  region, 
nearly  two  thousand  feet  above  the  sea,  was  now  sharp 
and  cold,  like  that  of  a clear  November  evening  in  the 
lowlands.  By  morning,  probably,  there  would  be  a 
frost,  if  not  a snowfall,  on  the  grass  and  rye,  and  an 
icy  surface  over  the  standing  water.  I was  glad  to 
perceive  a prospect  of  comfortable  quarters  in  a house 
which  we  were  approaching,  and  of  pleasant  company 
in  the  guests  who  were  assembled  at  the  door. 

OUR  EVENING  PARTY  AMONG  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

We  stood  in  front  of  a good  substantial  farm  house, 
of  old  date  in  that  wild  country.  A sign  over  the  door 
denoted  it  to  be  the  White  Mountain  Post  Office  — an 
establishment  which  distributes  letters  and  newspapers 
to  perhaps  a score  of  persons,  comprising  the  popula- 
tion of  two  or  three  townships  among  the  hills.  The 
broad  and  weighty  antlers  of  a deer,  ua  stag  of  ten,” 
were  fastened  at  the  corner  of  the  house ; a fox’s  bushy 
tail  was  nailed  beneath  them ; and  a huge  black  paw 
lay  on  the  ground,  newly  severed  and  still  bleeding  — 
the  trophy  of  a bear  hunt.  Among  several  persons 
collected  about  the  doorsteps,  the  most  remarkable 
was  a sturdy  mountaineer,  of  six  feet  two  and  corre- 
sponding bulk,  with  a heavy  set  of  features,  such  as 


SKETCHES  FROM  MEMORY. 


215 


might  be  moulded  on  his  own  blacksmith’s  anvil,  but 
yet  indicative  of  mother  wit  and  rough  humor.  As 
we  appeared,  he  uplifted  a tin  trumpet,  four  or  five 
feet  long,  and  blew  a tremendous  blast,  either  in  honor 
of  our  arrival  or  to  awaken  an  echo  from  the  oppo- 
site hill. 

Ethan  Crawford’s  guests  were  of  such  a motley  de- 
scription as  to  form  quite  a picturesque  group,  seldom 
seen  together  except  at  some  place  like  this,  at  once 
the  pleasure  house  of  fashionable  tourists  and  the 
homely  inn  of  country  travellers.  Among  the  compa- 
ny at  the  door  were  the  mineralogist  and  the  owner  of 
the  gold  opera  glass  whom  we  had  encountered  in  the 
Notch ; two  Georgian  gentlemen,  who  had  chilled  their 
southern  blood  that  morning  on  the  top  of  Mount 
Washington  ; a physician  and  his  wife  from  Conway  ; 
a trader  of  Burlington  and  an  old  squire  of  the 
Green  Mountains ; and  two  young  married  couples, 
all  the  way  from  Massachusetts,  on  the  matrimonial 
jaunt.  Besides  these  strangers,  the  rugged  county  of 
Coos,  in  which  we  were,  was  represented  by  half  a 
dozen  woodcutters,  who  had  slain  a bear  in  the  forest 
and  smitten  off  his  paw. 

I had  joined  the  party,  and  had  a moment’s  leisure  to 
examine  them  before  the  echo  of  Ethan’s  blast  re- 
turned from  the  hill.  Not  one,  but  many  echoes  had 
caught  up  the  harsh  and  tuneless  sound,  untwisted  its 
complicated  threads,  and  found  a thousand  aerial  har- 
monies in  one  stern  trumpet  tone.  It  was  a distinct 
yet  distant  and  dreamlike  symphony  of  melodious  in- 
struments, as  if  an  airy  band  had  been  hidden  on  the 
hillside  and  made  faint  music  at  the  summons.  No 


216 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


subsequent  trial  produced  so  clear,  delicate,  and  spir- 
itual a concert  as  the  first.  A fieldpiece  was  then 
discharged  from  the  top  of  a neighboring  hill,  and  gave 
birth  to  one  long  reverberation,  which  ran  round  the 
circle  of  mountains  in  an  unbroken  chain  of  sound 
and  rolled  away  without  a separate  echo.  After  these 
experiments,  the  cold  atmosphere  drove  us  all  into  the 
house,  with  the  keenest  appetites  for  supper. 

It  did  one’s  heart  good  to  see  the  great  fires  that 
were  kindled  in  the  parlor  and  bar  room,  especially 
the  latter,  where  the  fireplace  was  built  of  rough  stone, 
and  might  have  contained  the  trunk  of  an  old  tree  for 
a backlog.  A man  keeps  a comfortable  hearth  when 
his  own  forest  is  at  his  very  door.  In  the  parlor,  when 
the  evening  was  fairly  set  in,  we  held  our  hands  before 
our  eyes  to  shield  them  from  the  ruddy  glow,  and 
began  a pleasant  variety  of  conversation.  The  min- 
eralogist and  the  physician  talked  about  the  invigorat- 
ing qualities  of  the  mountain  air,  and  its  excellent  effect 
on  Ethan  Crawford’s  father,  an  old  man  of  seventy-five, 
with  the  unbroken  frame  of  middle  life.  The  two 
brides  and  the  doctor’s  wife  held  a whispered  discus- 
sion, which,  by  their  frequent  titterings  and  a blush  or 
two,  seemed  to  have  reference  to  the  trials  or  enjoy- 
ments of  the  matrimonial  state.  The  bridegrooms  sat 
together  in  a corner,  rigidly  silent,  like  Quakers  whom 
the  spirit  moveth  not,  being  still  in  the  odd  predica- 
ment of  bashfulness  towards  their  own  young  wives. 
The  Green  Mountain  squire  chose  me  for  his  compan- 
ion, and  described  the  difficulties  he  had  met  with  half 
a century  ago  in  travelling  from  the  Connecticut  River 
through  the  Notch  to  Conway,  now  a single  day’s 


SKETCHES  FROM  MEMORY. 


217 


journey,  though  it  had  cost  him  eighteen.  The  Geor- 
gians held  the  album  between  them,  and  favored  us 
with  the  few  specimens  of  its  contents,  which  they 
considered  ridiculous  enough  to  be  worth  hearing. 
One  extract  met  with  deserved  applause.  It  was  a 
“ Sonnet  to  the  Snow  on  Mount  Washington,”  and  had 
been  contributed  that  very  afternoon,  bearing  a signa- 
ture of  great  distinction  in  magazines  and  annuals. 
The  lines  were  elegant  and  full  of  fancy,  but  too  re- 
mote from  familiar  sentiment,  and  cold  as  their  sub- 
ject, resembling  those  curious  specimens  of  crystallized 
vapor  which  I observed  next  day  on  the  mountain  top. 
The  poet  was  understood  to  be  the  young  gentleman 
of  the  gold  opera  glass,  who  heard  our  laudatory  re- 
marks with  the  composure  of  a veteran. 

Such  was  our  party,  and  such  their  ways  of  amuse- 
ment. But  on  a winter  evening  another  set  of  guests 
assembled  at  the  hearth  where  these  summer  travellers 
were  now  sitting.  I once  had  it  in  contemplation  to 
spend  a month  hereabouts,  in  sleighing  time,  for  the 
sake  of  studying  the  yeomen  of  New  England,  who 
then  elbow  each  other  through  the  Notch  by  hundreds, 
on  their  way  to  Portland.  There  could  be  no  better 
school  for  such  a purpose  than  Ethan  Crawford’s  inn. 
Let  the  student  go  thither  in  December,  sit  down  with 
the  teamsters  at  their  meals,  share  their  evening  mer- 
riment, and  repose  with  them  at  night  when  every  bed 
has  its  three  occupants,  and  parlor,  bar  room,  and 
kitchen  are  strewn  with  slumberers  around  the  fire- 
Then  let  him  rise  before  daylight,  button  his  greatcoat, 
muffle  up  his  ears,  and  stride  with  the  departing  cara- 
van a mile  or  two,  to  see  how  sturdily  they  make  head 


218 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


against  the  blast.  A treasure  of  characteristic  traits 
will  repay  all  inconveniences,  even  should  a frozen 
nose  be  of  the  number. 

The  conversation  of  our  party  soon  became  more 
animated  and  sincere,  and  we  recounted  some  tradi- 
tions of  the  Indians,  who  believed  that  the  father-  and 
mother  of  their  race  were  saved  from  a deluge  by  as- 
cending the  peak  of  Mount  Washington.  The  children 
of  that  pair  have  been  overwhelmed,  and  found  no  such 
refuge.  In  the  mythology  of  the  savage,  these  moun- 
tains were  afterwards  considered  sacred  and  inacces- 
sible, full  of  unearthly  wonders,  illuminated  at  lofty 
heights  by  the  blaze  of  precious  stones,  and  inhabited 
by  deities,  who  sometimes  shrouded  themselves  in  the 
snow  storm  and  came  down  on  the  lower  world. 
There  are  few  legends  more  poetical  than  that  of  the 
“ Great  Carbuncle  ” of  the  White  Mountains.  The 
belief  was  communicated  to  the  English  settlers,  and 
is  hardly  yet  extinct,  that  a gem,  of  such  immense 
size  as  to  be  seen  shining  miles  away,  hangs  from  a 
rock  over  a clear,  deep  lake,  high  up  among  the  hills. 
They  who  had  once  beheld  its  splendor  were  inthralled 
with  an  unutterable  yearning  to  possess  it.  But  a 
spirit  guarded  that  inestimable  jewel,  and  bewildered 
the  adventurer  with  a dark  mist  from  the  enchanted 
lake.  Thus  life  was  worn  away  in  the  vain  search 
for  an  unearthly  treasure,  till  at  length  the  deluded  one 
went  up  the  mountain,  still  sanguine  as  in  youth,  but 
returned  no  more.  On  this  theme  methinks  I could 
frame  a tale  with  a deep  moral. 

The  hearts  of  the  palefaces  would  not  thrill  to  these 
superstitions  of  the  red  men,  though  we  spoke  of  them 


SKETCHES  FROM  MEMORY. 


219 


in  the  centre  of  their  haunted  region.  The  habits  and 
sentiments  of  that  departed  people  were  too  distinct 
from  those  of  their  successors  to  find  much  real  sym- 
pathy. It  has  often  been  a matter  of  regret  to  me 
that  I was  shut  out  from  the  most  peculiar  field  of 
American  fiction  by  an  inability  to  see  any  romance, 
or  poetry,  or  grandeur,  or  beauty  in  the  Indian  char- 
acter, at  least  till  such  traits  were  pointed  out  by 
others.  I do  abhor  an  Indian  story.  Yet  no  writer 
can  be  more  secure  of  a permanent  place  in  our  litera- 
ture than  the  biographer  of  the  Indian  chiefs.  His 
subject,  as  referring  to  tribes  which  have  mostly  van- 
ished from  the  earth,  gives  him  a right  to  be  placed  on 
a classic  shelf,  apart  from  the  merits  which  will  sustain 
him  there. 

I made  inquiries  whether,  in  his  researches  about 
these  parts,  our  mineralogist  had  found  the  three 
u Silver  Hills  ” which  an  Indian  sachem  sold  to  an 
Englishman  nearly  two  hundred  years  ago,  and  the 
treasure  of  which  the  posterity  of  the  purchaser  have 
been  looking  for  ever  since.  But  the  man  of  science 
had  ransacked  every  hill  along  the  Saco,  and  knew 
nothing  of  these  prodigious  piles  of  wealth.  By  this 
time,  as  usual  with  men  on  the  eve  of  great  adventure, 
we  had  prolonged  our  session  deep  into  the  night, 
considering  how  early  we  were  to  set  out  on  our 
six  miles’  ride  to  the  foot  of  Mount  Washington. 
There  was  now  a general  breaking  up.  I scrutinized 
the  faces  of  the  two  bridegrooms,  and  saw  but  little 
probability  of  their  leaving  the  bosom  of  earthly  bliss, 
in  the  first  week  of  the  honeymoon  and  at  the  frosty 
hour  of  three,  to  climb  above  the  clouds ; nor,  when 


220 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


I felt  how  sharp  the  wind  was  as  it  rushed  through  a 
broken  pane  and  eddied  between  the  chinks  of  my  un- 
plastered  chamber,  did  I anticipate  much  alacrity  on 
my  own  part,  though  we  were  to  seek  for  the  Great 
Carbuncle.” 

THE  CANAL  BOAT. 

I was  inclined  to  be  poetical  about  the  Grand  Canal, 
(n  my  imagination  De  Witt  Clinton  was  an  enchanter, 
who  had  waved  his  magic  wand  from  the  Hudson  to 
Lake  Erie  and  united  them  by  a watery  highway, 
crowded  with  the  commerce  of  two  worlds,  till  then  in- 
accessible to  each  other.  This  simple  and  mighty  con- 
ception had  conferred  inestimable  value  on  spots  which 
Nature  seemed  to  have  thrown  carelessly  into  the  great 
body  of  the  earth,  without  foreseeing  that  they  could 
ever  attain  importance.  I pic  lured  the  surprise  of  the 
sleepy  Dutchmen  when  the  new  river  first  glittered  by 
their  doors,  bringing  them  hard  cash  or  foreign  com- 
modities in  exchange  for  their  hitherto  unmarketable 
produce.  Surely  the  water  of  this  canal  must  be  the 
most  fertilizing  of  all  fluids ; for  it  causes  towns,  with 
their  masses  of  bi’ick  and  stone,  their  churches  and 
theatres,  their  business  and  hubbub,  their  luxury  and 
refinement,  their  gay  dames  and  polished  citizens,  to 
spring  up,  till  in  time  the  wondrous  stream  may  flow 
between  two  continuous  lines  of  buildings,  through  one 
thronged  street,  from  Buffalo  to  Albany.  I embarked 
about  thirty  miles  below  Utica,  determining  to  voyage 
along  the  whole  extent  of  the  canal  at  least  twice  in 
the  course  of  the  summer. 

Behold  us,  then,  fairly  afloat,  with  three  horses  har- 


SKETCHES  FROM  MEMORY. 


221 


nessed  to  our  vessel,  like  the  steeds  of  Neptune  to  a 
huge  scallop  shell  in  mythological  pictures.  Bound  to 
a distant  port,  we  had  neither  chart  nor  compass,  nor 
cared  about  the  wind,  nor  felt  the  heaving  of  a billow, 
nor  dreaded  shipwreck,  however  fierce  the  tempest,  in 
our  adventurous  navigation  of  an  interminable  mud 
puddle  ; for  a mud  puddle  it  seemed,  and  as  dark  and 
turbid  as  if  every  kennel  in  the  land  paid  contribution 
to  it.  With  an  imperceptible  current,  it  holds  its  drowsy 
way  through  all  the  dismal  swamps  and  unimpressive 
scenery  that  could  be  found  between  the  great  lakes 
and  the  sea  coast.  Yet  there  is  variety  enough,  both  on 
the  surface  of  the  canal  and  along  its  banks,  to  amuse 
the  traveller,  if  an  overpowering  tedium  did  not  deaden 
his  perceptions. 

Sometimes  we  met  a black  and  rusty-looking  vessel, 
laden  with  lumber,  salt  from  Syracuse,  or  Genesee 
flour,  and  shaped  at  both  ends  like  a square-toed  boot, 
as  if  it  had  two  sterns,  and  were  fated  always  to  ad- 
vance backward.  On  its  deck  would  be  a square  hut, 
and  a woman  seen  through  the  window  at  her  household 
work,  with  a little  tribe  of  children  who  perhaps  had 
been  born  in  this  strange  dwelling  and  knew  no  other 
home.  Thus,  while  the  husband  smoked  his  pipe  at  the 
helm  and  the  eldest  son  rode  one  of  the  horses,  on 
went  the  family,  travelling  hundreds  of  miles  in  their 
own  house  and  carrying  their  fireside  with  them.  The 
most  frequent  species  of  craft  were  the  “ line  boats,” 
which  had  a cabin  at  each  end,  and  a great  bulk  of  bar- 
rels, bales,  and  boxes  in  the  midst,  or  light  packets 
like  our  own,  decked  all  over  with  a row  of  curtained 
windows  from  stem  to  stern,  and  a drowsy  face  at  ever,v 


222 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


one.  Once  we  encountered  a boat  of  rude  construc- 
tion, painted  all  in  gloomy  black,  and  manned  by  three 
Indians,  who  gazed  at  us  in  silence  and  with  a singular 
fixedness  of  eye.  Perhaps  these  three  alone,  among 
the  ancient  possessors  of  the  land,  had  attempted  to  de- 
rive benefit  from  the  white  man’s  mighty  projects  and 
float  along  the  current  of  his  enterprise.  Not  long 
after,  in  the  midst  of  a swamp  and  beneath  a clouded 
sky,  we  overtook  a vessel  that  seemed  full  of  mirth  and 
sunshine.  It  contained  a little  colony  of  Swiss  on  their 
way  to  Michigan,  clad  in  garments  of  strange  fashion 
and  gay  colors,  scarlet,  yellow,  and  bright  blue,  singing, 
laughing,  and  making  merry  in  odd  tones  and  a babble 
of  outlandish  words.  One  pretty  damsel,  with  a beau- 
tiful pair  of  naked  white  arms,  addressed  a mirthful  re- 
mark to  me.  She  spoke  in  her  native  tongue,  and  I re- 
torted in  good  English,  both  of  us  laughing  heartily  at 
each  other’s  unintelligible  wit.  I cannot  describe  how 
pleasantly  this  incident  affected  me.  These  honest 
Swiss  were  an  itinerant  community  of  jest  and  fun  jour- 
neying through  a gloomy  land  and  among  a dull  race 
of  money-getting  drudges,  meeting  none  to  understand 
their  mirth,  and  only  one  to  sympathize  with  it,  yet  still 
retaining  the  happy  lightness  of  their  own  spirit. 

Had  I been  on  my  feet  at  the  time  instead  of  sailing 
slowly  along  in  a dirty  canal  boat,  I should  often  have 
paused  to  contemplate  the  diversified  panorama  along 
the  banks  of  the  canal.  Sometimes  the  scene  was  a 
forest,  dark,  dense,  and  impervious,  breaking  away  oc- 
casionally and  receding  from  a lonely  tract,  covered 
with  dismal  black  stumps,  where,  on  the  verge  of  the 
canal,  might  be  seen  a log  cottage  and  a sallow-faced 


SKETCHES  FROM  MEMORY. 


223 


woman  at  the  window.  Lean  and  aguish,  she  looked 
like  poverty  personified,  half  clothed,  half  fed,  and 
dwelling  in  a desert,  while  a tide  of  wealth  was  sweep- 
ing by  her  doc^P  Two  or  three  miles  farther  would 
bring  us  to  a lock,  where  the  slight  impediment  to  nav- 
igation had  created  a little  mart  of  trade.  Here  would 
be  found  commodities  of  all  sorts,  enumerated  in  yellow 
letters  on  the  window  shutters  of  a small  grocery  store, 
the  owner  of  which  had  set  his  soul  to  the  gathering  of 
coppers  and  small  change,  buying  and  selling  through 
the  week,  and  counting  his  gains  on  the  blessed  Sab- 
bath. The  next  scene  might  be  the  dwelling  houses 
and  stores  of  a thriving  village,  built  of  wood  or  small 
gray  stones,  a church  spire  rising  in  the  midst,  and 
generally  two  taverns,  bearing  over  their  piazzas  the 
pompous  titles  of  “ hotel,”  u exchange,”  “tontine,”  or 
“ coffee  house.”  Passing  on,  we  glide  now  into  the  un- 
quiet heart  of  an  inland  city,  — of  Utica,  for  instance,  — 
and  find  ourselves  amid  piles  of  brick,  crowded  docks 
and  quays,  rich  warehouses,  and  a busy  population. 
We  feel  the  eager  and  hurrying  spirit  of  the  place,  like 
a stream  and  eddy  whirling  us  along  with  it.  Through 
the  thickest  of  the  tumult  goes  the  canal,  flowing  be- 
tween lofty  rows  of  buildings  and  arched  bridges  of 
hewn  stone.  Onward,  also,  go  we,  till  the  hum  and 
bustle  of  struggling  enterprise  die  away  behind  us  and 
we  are  threading  an  avenue  of  the  ancient  woods 
again. 

This  sounds  not  amiss  in  description,  but  was  so  tire- 
some in  reality  that  we  were  driven  to  the  most  childish 
expedients  for  amusement.  An  English  traveller  pa 
faded  the  deck,  with  a rifle  in  his  walking  stick,  and 


224 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


waged  war  on  squirrels  and  woodpeckers,  sometimes 
sending  an  unsuccessful  bullet  among  flocks  of  tame 
ducks  and  geese  which  abound  in  the  dirty  water  of  the 
canal.  I,  also,  pelted  these  foolish  ttfrds  with  apples, 
and  smiled  at  the  ridiculous  earnestness  of  their  scram- 
bles for  the  prize  while  the  apple  bobbed  about  like  a 
thing  of  life.  Several  little  accidents  afforded  us  good- 
natured  diversion.  At  the  moment  of  changing  horses 
the  tow  rope  caught  a Massachusetts  farmer  by  the  leg 
and  threw  him  down  in  a very  indescribable  posture, 
leaving  a purple  mark  around  his  sturdy  limb.  A new 
passenger  fell  flat  on  his  back  in  attempting  to  step  on 
deck  as  the  boat  emerged  from  under  a bridge. 
Another,  in  his  Sunday  clothes,  as  good  luck  would 
have  it,  being  told  to  leap  aboard  from  the  bank,  forth- 
with plunged  up  to  his  third  waistcoat  button  in  the 
canal,  and  was  fished  out  in  a very  pitiable  plight,  not 
at  all  amended  by  our  three  rounds  of  applause.  Anon 
a Virginia  schoolmaster,  too  intent  on  a pocket  Virgil  to 
heed  the  helmsman’s  warning,  u Bridge  ! bridge  ! ” 
was  saluted  by  the  said  bridge  on  his  knowledge  box. 
I had  prostrated  myself  like  a pagan  before  his  idol, 
but  heard  the  dull,  leaden  sound  of  the  contact,  and 
fully  expected  to  see  the  treasures  of  the  poor  man’s 
cranium  scattered  about  the  deck.  However,  as  there 
was  no  harm  done,  except  a large  bump  on  the  head, 
and  probably  a corresponding  dent  in  the  bridge,  the 
rest  of  us  exchanged  glances  and  laughed  quietly. 
O,  how  pitiless  are  idle  people  ! 

***** 

The  table  being  now  lengthened  through  the  cabin 
and  spread  for  supper,  the  next  twenty  minutes  were 


SKETCHES  FROM  MEMORY. 


225 


the  pleasantest  I had  spent  on  the  canal,  the  same  space 
at  dinner  excepted.  At  the  close  of  the  meal  it  had 
become  dusky  enough  for  lamplight.  The  rain  pat- 
tered unceasingly  on  the  deck,  and  sometimes  came 
with  a sullen  rush  against  the  windows,  driven  by  the 
wind  as  it  stirred  through  an  opening  of  the  forest. 
The  intolerable  dulness  of  the  scene  engendered  an 
evil  spirit  in  me.  Perceiving  that  the  Englishman  was 
taking  notes  in  a memorandum  book,  with  occasional 
glances  round  the  cabin,  I presumed  that  we  were  all 
to  figure  in  a future  volume  of  travels,  and  amused  my 
ill  humor  by  falling  into  the  probable  vein  of  his  re- 
marks. He  would  hold  up  an  imaginary  mirror,  wherein 
our  reflected  faces  would  appear  ugly  and  ridiculous, 
yet  still  retain  an  undeniable  likeness  to  the  originals. 
Then,  with  more  sweeping  malice,  he  would  make  these 
caricatures  the  representatives  of  great  classes  of  my 
countrymen. 

He  glanced  at  the  Virginia  schoolmaster,  a Yankee 
by  birth,  who,  to  recreate  himself,  was  examining  a 
freshman  from  Schenectady  College  in  the  conjugation 
of  a Greek  verb.  Him  the  Englishman  would  por- 
tray as  the  scholar  of  America,  and  compare  his  erudi- 
tion to  a schoolboy’s  Latin  theme  made  up  of  scraps 
ill  selected  and  worse  put  together.  Next  the  tourist 
looked  at  the  Massachusetts  farmer,  who  was  delivering 
a dogmatic  harangue  on  the  iniquity  of  Sunday  mails. 
Here  was  the  far-famed  yeoman  of  New  England  ; his 
religion,  writes  the  Englishman,  is  gloom  on  the  Sab- 
bath, long  prayers  every  morning  and  eventide,  and 
ill iberality  at  all  times ; his  boasted  information  is 
merely  an  abstract  and  compound  of  newspaper  para- 
VOL.  ii.  15 


226 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


graphs,  Congress  debates,  caucus  harangues,  and  the 
argument  and  judge’s  charge  in  his  own  lawsuits.  The 
bookmonger  cast  his  eye  at  a Detroit  merchant,  and 
began  scribbling  faster  than  ever.  In  this  sharpeyed 
man,  this  lean  man,  of  wrinkled  brow,  we  see  daring 
enterprise  and  close-fisted  avarice  combined.  Here  is 
the  worshipper  of  Mammon  at  noonday ; here  is  the 
three  times  bankrupt,  richer  after  every  ruin  ; here,  in 
one  word,  (O  wicked  Englishman  to  say  it!)  here  is 
the  American.  He  lifted  his  eyeglass  to  inspect  a 
western  lady,  who  at  once  became  aware  of  the  glance, 
reddened,  and  retired  deeper  into  the  female  part  of 
the  cabin.  Here  was  the  pure,  modest,  sensitive,  and 
shrinking  woman  of  America  — shrinking  when  no  evil 
is  intended,  and  sensitive  like  diseased  flesh,  that  thrills 
if  you  but  point  at  it ; and  strangely  modest,  without 
confidence  in  the  modesty  of  other  people  ; and  admi- 
rably pure,  with  such  a quick  apprehension  of  all  im- 
purity. 

In  this  manner  I went  all  through  the  cabin,  hitting 
every  body  as  hard  a lash  as  I could,  and  laying  the 
whole  blame  on  the  infernal  Englishman.  At  length  I 
caught  the  eyes  of  my  own  image  in  the  looking  glass, 
where  a number  of  the  party  were  likewise  reflected, 
and  among  them  the  Englishman,  who  at  that  moment 
was  intently  observing  myself. 

# # # # # 

The  crimson  curtain  being  let  down  between  the 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  the  cabin  became  a bed  chamber 
for  twenty  persons,  who  were  laid  on  shelves  one  above 
another.  For  a long  time  our  various  incommodities 
kept  us  all  awake  except  five  or  six,  who  were  accus- 


from  memory. 


227 


SKETCHES 

tomcd  to  sleep  nightly  amid  the  uproar  of  their  own 
snoring,  and  had  little  to  dread  from  any  other  species 
of  disturbance.  It  is  a curious  fact  that  these  snorers 
had  been  the  most  quiet  people  in  the  boat  while  awake, 
and  became  peacebreakers  only  when  others  cease  to 
be  so,  breathing  tumult  out  of  their  repose.  Would  it 
were  possible  to  affix  a wind  instrument  to  the  nose, 
and  thus  make  melody  of  a snore,  so  that  a sleeping 
lover  might  serenade  his  mistress  or  a congregation 
snore  a psalm  tune  ! Other,  though  fainter,  sounds  than 
these  contributed  to  my  restlessness.  My  head  was 
close  to  the  crimson  curtain,  — the  sexual  division  of 
the  boat,  — behind  which  I continually  heard  whispers 
and  stealthy  footsteps  ; the  noise  of  a comb  laid  on  the 
table  or  a slipper  dropped  on  the  floor;  the  twang,  like 
i\  broken  harpstring,  caused  by  loosening  a tight  belt ; 
the  rustling  of  a gown  in  its  descent ; and  the  unlacing 
of  a pair  of  stays.  My  ear  seemed  to  have  the  prop- 
erties of  an  eye ; a visible  image  pestered  my  fancy  in 
the  darkness  ; the  curtain  was  withdrawn  between  me 
and  the  western  lady,  who  yet  disrobed  herself  without 
a blush. 

Finally  all  was  hushed  in  that  quarter.  Still  I was 
more  broad  awake  than  through  the  whole  preceding 
day,  and  felt  a feverish  impulse  to  toss  my  limbs  miles 
apart  and  appease  the  unquietness  of  mind  by  that  of 
matter.  Forgetting  that  my  berth  was  hardly  so  wide 
as  a coffin,  I turned  suddenly  over,  and  fell  like  an  ava- 
lanche on  the  floor,  to  the  disturbance  of  the  whole 
community  of  sleepers.  As  there  were  no  bones 
broken,  I blessed  the  accident  and  went  on  deck.  A 
lantern  was  burning  at  each  end  of  the  boat,  and  one 


228 


MOSSES  FROM  AM  OLD  MAMSE. 


of  the  crew  was  stationed  at  the  bows,  keeping  watch, 
as  mariners  do  on  the  ocean.  Though  the  rain  had 
ceased,  the  sky  was  all  one  cloud,  and  the  darkness  so 
intense  that  there  seemed  to  be  no  world  except  the 
little  space  on  which  our  lanterns  glimmered.  Yet  it 
was  an  impressive  scene. 

We  were  traversing  the  “ long  level,”  a dead  flat  be- 
tween Utica  and  Syracuse,  where  the  canal  has  not  rise 
or  fall  enough  to  require  a lock  for  nearly  seventy 
miles.  There  can  hardly  be  a more  dismal  tract  of 
country.  The  forest  which  covers  it,  consisting  chiefly 
of  white  cedar,  black  ash,  and  other  trees  that  live  in 
excessive  moisture,  is  now  decayed  and  deaths  truck  by 
the  partial  draining  of  the  swamp  into  the  great  ditch 
of  the  canal.  Sometimes,  indeed,  our  lights  were  re- 
flected from  pools  of  stagnant  water  which  stretched  far 
in  among  the  trunks  of  the  trees,  beneath  dense  masses 
of  dark  foliage.  But  generally  the  tall  stems  and  in- 
termingled branches  were  naked,  and  brought  into 
strong  relief  amid  the  surrounding  gloom  by  the  white- 
ness of  their  decay.  Often  we  beheld  the  prostrate 
form  of  some  old  sylvan  giant  which  had  fallen  and 
crushed  down  smaller  trees  under  its  immense  ruin.  In 
spots  where  destruction  had  been  riotous,  the  lanterns 
showed  perhaps  a hundred  trunks,  erect,  half  over- 
thrown, extended  along  the  ground,  resting  on  their 
shattered  limbs  or  tossing  them  desperately  into  the 
darkness,  but  all  of  one  ashy  white,  all  naked  together, 
in  desolate  confusion.  Thus  growing  out  of  the  night 
as  we  drew  nigh,  and  vanishing  as  we  glided  on,  based 
on  obscurity,  and  overhung  and  bounded  by  it,  the  scene 
was  ghostlike  — the  very  land  of  unsubstantial  things, 


SKETCHES  FROM  MEMORY. 


229 


whither  dreams  might  betake  themselves  when  they 
quit  the  slumberer’s  brain. 

My  fancy  found  another  emblem.  The  wild  nature 
of  America  had  been  driven  to  this  desert-place  by  the 
encroachments  of  civilized  man.  And  even  here, 
where  the  savage  queen  was  throned  on  the  ruins  of 
her  empire,  did  we  penetrate,  a vulgar  and  worldly 
throng,  intruding  on  her  latest  solitude.  In  other  lands 
decay  sits  among  fallen  palaces ; but  here  her  home  is 
in  the  forests. 

Looking  ahead,  I discerned  a distant  light,  announ- 
cing the  approach  of  another  boat,  which  soon  passed 
us,  and  proved  to  be  a rusty  old  scow — just  such  a 
craft  as  the  “ Flying  Dutchman  ” would  navigate  on 
the  canal.  Perhaps  it  was  that  celebrated  personage 
himself  whom  I imperfectly  distinguished  at  the  helm 
in  a glazed  cap  and  rough  greatcoat,  with  a pipe  in  his 
mouth,  leaving  the  fumes  of  tobacco  a hundred  yards 
behind.  Shortly  after  our  boatman  blew  a horn,  send- 
ing a long  and  melancholy  note  through  the  forest  ave- 
nue, as  a signal  for  some  watcher  in  the  wilderness  to 
be  ready  with  a change  of  horses.  We  had  proceeded 
a mile  or  two  with  our  fresh  team  when  the  tow  rope 
got  entangled  in  a fallen  branch  on  the  edge  of  the 
canal  and  caused  a momentary  delay,  during  which  I 
went  to  examine  the  phosphoric  light  of  an  old  tree  a 
little  within  the  forest.  It  was  not  the  first  delusive  ra- 
diance that  I had  followed. 

The  tree  lay  along  the  ground,  and  was  wholly  con- 
verted into  a mass  of  diseased  splendor,  which  threw  a 
ghastliness  around.  Being  full  of  conceits  that  night, 
I called  it  a frigid  fire,  a funeral  light,  illumining  de- 


230 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


cay  and  death,  an  emblem  of  fame  that  gleams  around 
the  dead  man  without  warming  him,  or  of  genius 
when  it  owes  its  brilliancy  to  moral  rottenness,  and  was 
thinking  that  such  ghostlike  torches  were  just  fit  to 
light  up  this  dead  forest  or  to  blaze  coldly  in  tombs, 
when,  starting  from  my  abstraction,  I looked  up  the 
canal.  I recollected  myself,  and  discovered  the  lan- 
terns glimmering  far  away. 

“ Boat  ahoy  ! ” shouted  I,  making  a trumpet  of  my 
closed  fists. 

Though  the  cry  must  have  rung  for  miles  along  that 
hollow  passage  of  the  woods,  it  produced  no  effect. 
These  packet  boats  make  up  for  their  snaillike  pace  by 
never  loitering  day  nor  night,  especially  for  those  who 
have  paid  their  fare.  Indeed,  the  captain  had  an  inter- 
est in  getting  rid  of  me  ; for  I was  his  creditor  for  a 
breakfast. 

“ They  are  gone,  Heaven  be  praised  ! ” ejaculated  I ; 
u for  I cannot  possibly  overtake  them.  Here  am  I,  on 
the  6 long  level,’  at  midnight,  with  the  comfortable  pros- 
pect of  a walk  to  Syracuse,  where  my  baggage  will  be 
left.  And  now  to  find  a house  or  shed  wherein  to  pass 
the  night.”  So  thinking  aloud,  I took  a flambeau  from 
the  old  tree,  burning,  but  consuming  not,  to  light  my 
steps  withal,  and,  like  a jack-o’-the-lantern,  set  out  on 
my  midnight  tour. 


THE  OLD  APPLE  DEALER. 


The  lover  of  the  moral  picturesque  may  sometimes 
find  what  he  seeks  in  a character  which  is  neverthe- 
less of  too  negative  a description  to  be  seized  upon 
and  represented  to  the  imaginative  vision  by  word  paint- 
ing. As  an  instance,  I remember  an  old  man  who  car- 
ries on  a little  trade  of  gingerbread  and  apples  at  the 
depot  of  one  of  our  railroads.  While  awaiting  the 
departure  of  the  cars,  my  observation,  flitting  to  and 
fro  among  the  livelier  characteristics  of  the  scene,  has 
often  settled  insensibly  upon  this  almost  hueless  object. 
Thus,  unconsciously  to  myself  and  unsuspected  by  him, 
I have  studied  the  old  apple  dealer  until  he  has  become 
a naturalized  citizen  of  my  inner  world.  How  little 
would  he  imagine  — poor,  neglected,  friendless,  unap- 
preciated, and  with  little  that  demands  appreciation  — 
that  the  mental  eye  of  an  utter  stranger  has  so  often 
reverted  to  his  figure  ! Many  a noble  form,  many  a 
beautiful  face,  has  flitted  before  me  and  vanished  like 
a shadow.  It  is  a strange  witchcraft  whereby  this  faded 
and  featureless  old  apple  dealer  has  gained  a settlement 
in  my  memory. 

He  is  a small  man,  with  gray  hair  and  gray  stubble 
beard,  and  is  invariably  clad  in  a shabby  surtout  of 
snuff  color,  closely  buttoned,  and  half  concealing  a pair 

(231) 


232 


MOCSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


of  gray  pantaloons ; the  whole  dress,  though  clean  and 
entire,  being  evidently  flimsy  with  much  wear.  His 
face,  thin,  withered,  furrowed,  and  with  features  which 
even  age  has  failed  to  render  impressive,  has  a frost- 
bitten aspect.  It  is  a moral  frost  which  no  physical 
warmth  or  comfortableness  could  counteract.  The 
summer  sunshine  may  fling  its  white  heat  upon  him  or 
the  good  fire  of  the  depot  room  may  make  him  the  focys 
of  its  blaze  on  a winter’s  day ; but  all  in  vain ; for  still 
the  old  man  looks  as  if  he  were  in  a frosty  atmosphere, 
with  scarcely  warmth  enough  to  keep  life  in  the  region 
about  his  heart.  It  is  a patient,  long-suffering,  quiet, 
hopeless,  shivering  aspect.  He  is  not  desperate,  — that, 
though  its  etymology  implies  no  more,  would  be  too 
positive  an  expression,  — but  merely  devoid  of  hope. 
As  all  his  past  life,  probably,  offers  no  spots  of  bright- 
ness to  his  memory,  so  he  takes  his  present  poverty 
and  discomfort  as  entirely  a matter  of  course  : he  thinks 
it  the  definition  of  existence,  so  far  as  himself  is  con- 
cerned, to  be  poor,  cold,  and  uncomfortable.  It  may 
be  added,  that  time  has  not  thrown  dignity  as  a mantle 
over  the  old  man’s  figure  : there  is  nothing  venerable 
about  him  : you  pity  him  without  a scruple. 

He  sits  on  a bench  in  the  depot  room  ; and  before 
him,  on  the  floor,  are  deposited  two  baskets  of  a capacity 
to  contain  his  whole  stock  in  trade.  Across  from  one 
basket  to  the  other  extends  a board,  on  which  is  displayed 
a plate  of  cakes  and  gingerbread,  some  russet  and  red- 
cheeked apples,  and  a box  containing  variegated  sticks 
of  candy,  together  with  that  delectable  condiment 
known  by  children  as  Gibraltar  rock,  neatly  done 
up  in  white  paper.  There  is  likewise  a half-peck 


THE  OLD  APPLE  DEALER. 


233 


measure  of  cracked  walnuts  and  two  or  three  tin  half 
pints  or  gills  filled  with  the  nut  kernels,  ready  for  pur- 
chasers. Such  are  the  small  commodities  with  which 
our  old  friend  comes  daily  before  the  world,  minister- 
ing to  its  petty  needs  and  little  freaks  of  appetite,  and 
seeking  thence  the  solid  subsistence  — so  far  as  he  may 
subsist  — of  his  life. 

A slight  observer  would  speak  of  the  old  man’s  qui- 
etude ; but,  on  closer  scrutiny,  you  discover  that  there 
is  a continual  unrest  within  him,  which  somewhat  re- 
sembles the  fluttering  action  of  the  nerves  in  a corpse 
from  which  life  has  recently  departed.  Though  he 
never  exhibits  any  violent  action,  and,  indeed,  might 
appear  to  be  sitting  quite  still,  yet  you  perceive,  when 
his  minuter  peculiarities  begin  to  be  detected,  that  he 
is  always  making  some  little  movement  or  other.  He 
looks  anxiously  at  his  plate  of  cakes  or  pyramid  of 
apples  and  slightly  alters  their  arrangement,  with  an 
evident  idea  that  a great  deal  depends  on  their  being 
disposed  exactly  thus  and  so.  Then  for  a moment  he 
gazes  out  of  the  window  ; then  he  shivers  quietly  and 
folds  his  arms  across  his  breast,  as  if  to  draw  himself 
closer  within  himself,  and  thus  keep  a flicker  of  warmth 
in  his  lonesome  heart.  Now  he  turns  again  to  his  mer- 
chandise of  cakes,  apples,  and  candy,  and  discovers 
that  this  cake  or  that  apple,  or  yonder  stick  of  red  and 
white  candy,  has  somehow  got  out  of  its  proper  posi- 
tion. And  is  there  not  a walnut  kernel  too  many  or  too 
few  in  one  of  those  small  tin  measures  ? Again  the 
whole  arrangement  appears  to  be  settled  to  his  mind ; 
but,  in  the  course  of  a minute  or  two,  there  will  assur- 
edly be  something  to  set  right.  At  times,  by  an  inde- 


234 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


scribable  shadow  upon  his  features,  too  quiet,  however, 
to  be  noticed  until  you  are  familiar  with  his  ordinary 
aspect,  the  expression  of  frostbitten,  patient  despond- 
ency becomes  very  touching.  It  seems  as  if  just  at 
that  instant  the  suspicion  occurred  to  him  that,  in  his 
chill  decline  of  life,  earning  scanty  bread  by  selling 
cakes,  apples,  and  candy,  he  is  a very  miserable  old 
fellow. 

But,  if  he  think  so,  it  is  a mistake.  He  can  never 
suffer  the  extreme  of  misery,  because  the  tone  of  his 
whole  being  is  too  much  subdued  for  him  to  feel  any 
thing  acutely. 

Occasionally  one  of  the  passengers,  to  while  away  a 
tedious  interval,  approaches  the  old  man,  inspects  the 
articles  upon  his  board,  and  even  peeps  curiously  into 
the  two  baskets.  Another,  striding  to  and  fro  along 
the  room,  throws  a look  at  the  apples  and  gingerbread 
at  every  turn.  A third,  it  may  be  of  a more  sensitive 
and  delicate  texture  of  being,  glances  shyly  thither- 
ward, cautious  not  to  excite  expectations  of  a purchaser 
while  yet  undetermined  whether  to  buy.  But  there  ap- 
pears to  be  no  need  of  such>a  scrupulous  regard  to  our 
old  friend’s  feelings.  True,  he  is  conscious  of  the  re- 
mote possibility  to  sell  a cake  or  an  apple ; but  innu- 
merable disappointments  have  rendered  him  so  far  a 
philosopher,  that,  even  if  the  purchased  article  should 
be  returned,  he  will  consider  it  altogether  in  the  ordinary 
train  of  events.  He  speaks  to  none,  and  makes  no  sign 
of  offering  his  wares  to  the  public  : not  that  he  is  de- 
terred by  pride,  but  by  the  certain  conviction  that  such 
demonstrations  would  not  increase  his  custom.  Besides, 
this  activity  in  business  would  require  an  energy  that 


THE  OLD  APPLE  DEALER. 


235 


never  could  have  been  a characteristic  of  his  almost 
passive  disposition  even  in  youth.  Whenever  an  ac- 
tual customer  appears  the  old  man  looks  up  with  a pa- 
tient eye  : if  the  price  and  the  article  are  approved,  he 
is  ready  to  make  change  ; otherwise  his  eyelids  droop 
again  sadly  enough,  but  with  no  heavier  despondency 
than  before.  He  shivers,  perhaps  folds  his  lean  arms 
around  his  lean  body,  and  resumes  the  lifelong,  frozen 
patience  in  which  consists  his  strength.  Once  in  a 
while  a schoolboy  comes  hastily  up,  places  a cent  or 
two  upon  the  board,  and  takes  up  a cake,  or  stick  of 
candy,  or  a measure  of  walnuts,  or  an  apple  as  red 
cheeked  as  himself.  There  are  no  words  as  to  price, 
that  being  as  well  known  to  the  buyer  as  to  the  seller. 
The  old  apple  dealer  never  speaks  an  unnecessary 
word  : not  that  he  is  sullen  and  morose  ; but  there  is 
none  of  the  cheeriness  and  briskness  in  him  that  stirs 
”p  people  to  talk. 

Not  seldom  he  is  greeted  by  some  old  neighbor,  a 
man  well  to  do  in  the  world,  who  makes  a civil,  patron- 
izing observation  about  the  weather ; and  then,  by  way 
of  performing  a charitable  deed,  begins  to  chaffer  for 
an  apple.  Our  friend  presumes  not  on  any  past  ac- 
quaintance ; he  makes  the  briefest  possible  response  to 
all  general  remarks*  and  shrinks  quietly  into  himself 
again.  After  every  diminution  of  his  stock  he  takes 
care  to  produce  from  the  basket  another  cake,  another 
stick  of  candy,  another  apple,  or  another  measure  of 
walnuts,  to  supply  the  place  of  the  article  sold.  Two 
or  three  attempts  — or,  perchance,  half  a dozen  — are 
requisite  before  the  board  can  be  rearranged  to  his  satis* 
faction.  If  he  have  received  a silver  coin,  he  waits  tih 


236 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


the  purchaser  is  out  of  sight,  then  examines  it  closely 
and  tries  to  bend  it  with  his  finger  and  thumb  : finalh 
he  puts  it  into  his  waistcoat  pocket  with  seemingly  a 
gentle  sigh.  This  sigh,  so  faint  as  to  be  hardly  per- 
ceptible, and  not  expressive  of  any  definite  emotion,  is 
the  accompaniment  and  conclusion  of  all  his  actions 
It  is  the  symbol  of  the  chillness  and  torpid  melancholy 
of  his  old  age,  which  only  make  themselves  felt  sen- 
sibly when  his  repose  is  slightly  disturbed. 

Our  man  of  gingerbread  and  apples  is  not  a speci- 
men of  the  “ needy  man  who  has  seen  better  days.” 
Doubtless  there  have  been  better  and  brighter  days  in 
the  far-off  time  of  his  youth ; but  none  with  so  much 
sunshine  of  prosperity  in  them  that  the  chill,  the  de- 
pression, the  narrowness  of  means,  in  his  declining 
years,  can  have  come  upon  him  by  surprise.  His  life 
has  all  been  of  a piece.  His  subdued  and  nerveless 
boyhood  prefigured  his  abortive  prime,  which  likewise 
contained  within  itself  the  prophecy  and  image  of  his 
lean  and  torpid  age.  He  was  perhaps  a mechanic,  who 
never  came  to  be  a master  in  his  craft,  or  a petty  trades- 
man, rubbing  onward  between  passably  to,  do  and  pov- 
erty. Possibly  he  may  look  back  to  some  brilliant 
epoch  of  his  career  when  there  were  a hundred  or  two 
of  dollars  to  his  credit  in  the  Savings  Bank.  Such  must 
have  been  the  extent  of  his  better  fortune  — his  little 
measure  of  this  world’s  triumphs  — all  that  he  has  known 
of  success.  A meek,  downcast,  humble,  uncomplaining 
creature,  he  probably  has  never  felt  himself  entitled  to 
more  than  so  much  of  the  gifts  of  Providence.  Is  it  not 
still  something  that  he  has  never  held  out  his  hand  for 
charity,  nor  has  yet  been  driven  to  that  sad  home  and 


THE  OLD  APPLE  DEALER. 


237 


household  of  Earth’s  forlorn  and  broken-spirited  chil- 
dren, the  almshouse  ? He  cherishes  no  quarrel,  there- 
fore, with  his  destiny,  nor  with  the  Author  of  it.  All  is 
as  it  should  be. 

If,  indeed,  he  have  been  bereaved  of  a son,  a bold, 
energetic,  vigorous  young  man,  on  whom  the  father’s 
feeble  nature  leaned  as  on  a staff  of  strength,  in  that 
case  he  may  have  felt  a bitterness  that  could  not  other- 
wise have  been  generated  in  his  heart.  But  methinks 
the  joy  of  possessing  such  a son  and  the  agony  of 
losing  him  would  have  developed  the  old  man’s  moral 
and  intellectual  nature  to  a much  greater  degree  than 
we  now  find  it.  Intense  grief  appears  to  be  as  much 
out  of  keeping  with  his  life  as  fervid  happiness. 

To  confess  the  truth,  it  is  not  the  easiest  matter  in 
the  world  to  define  and  individualize  a character  like 
this  which  we  are  now  handling.  The  portrait  must  be 
so  generally  negative  that  the  most  delicate  pencil  is 
likely  to  spoil  it  by  introducing  some  too  positive  tint. 
Every  touch  must  be  kept  down,  or  else  you  destroy 
the  subdued  tone  which  is  absolutely  essential  to  the 
whole  effect.  Perhaps  more  may  be  done  by  contrast 
than  by  direct  description.  For  this  purpose  I make 
use  of  another  cake  and  candy  merchant,  who  likewise 
infests  the  railroad  depot.  This  latter  worthy  is  a 
very  smart  and  well-dressed  boy  of  ten  years  old  or 
thereabouts,  who  skips  briskly  hither  and  thither,  ad- 
dressing the  passengers  in  a pert  voice,  yet  with  some- 
what of  good  breeding  in  his  tone  and  pronunciation. 
Now  he  has  caught  my  eye,  and  skips  across  the  room 
with  a pretty  pertness,  which  I should  like  to  correct 
with  a box  on  the  ear.  “ Any  cake,  sir  ? any  candy  ? ” 


238 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


No,  none  for  me,  my  lad.  I did  but  glance  at  your 
brisk  figure  in  order  to  catch  a reflected  light  and  throw 
it  upon  your  old  rival  yonder. 

Again,  in  order  to  invest  my  conception  of  the  old 
man  with  a more  decided  sense  of  reality,  I look  at 
him  in  the  very  moment  of  intensest  bustle,  on  the  ar- 
rival of  the  cars.  The  shriek  of  the  engine  as  it  rushes 
into  the  car  house  is  the  utterance  of  the  steam  fiend, 
whom  man  has  subdued  by  magic  spells  and  compels 
to  serve  as  a beast  of  burden.  He  has  skimmed  rivers 
in  his  headlong  rush,  dashed  through  forests,  plunged 
into  the  hearts  of  mountains,  and  glanced  from  the  city 
to  the  desert-place,  and  again  to  a far-off  city,  with  a 
meteoric  progress,  seen  and  out  of  sight,  while  his  re- 
verberating roar  still  fills  the  ear.  The  travellers  swarm 
forth  from  the  cars.  All  are  full  of  the  momentum 
which  they  have  caught  from  their  mode  of  convey- 
ance. It  seems  as  if  the  whole  world,  both  morally 
and  physically,  were  detached  from  its  old  standfasts 
and  set  in  rapid  motion.  And,  in  the  midst  of  this  ter- 
rible activity,  there  sits  the  old  man  of  gingerbread,  so 
subdued,  so  hopeless,  so  without  a stake  in  life,  and  yet 
not  positively  miserable,  — there  he  sits,  the  forlorn  old 
creature,  one  chill  and  sombre  day  after  another,  gath- 
ering scanty  coppers  for  his  cakes,  apples,  and  candy, — 
there  sits  the  old  apple  dealer,  in  his  threadbare  suit  of 
snuff  color  and  gray  and  his  grizzly  stubble  beard.  See  ! 
he  folds  his  lean  arms  around  his  lean  figure  with  that 
quiet  sigh  and  that  scarcely  perceptible  shiver  which 
are  the  tokens  of  his  inward  state.  I have  him  now. 
He  and  the  steam  fiend  are  each  other’s  antipodes  ; the 
latter  is  the  type  of  all  that  go  ahead,  and  the  old  man 


THE  OLD  APPLE  DEALER. 


239 


the  representative  of  that  melancholy  class  who  by 
some  sad  witchcraft  are  doomed  never  to  share  in  the 
world’s  exulting  progress.  Thus  the  contrast  between 
mankind  and  this  desolate  brother  becomes  picturesque, 
and  even  sublime. 

And  now  farewell,  old  friend  ! Little  do  you  sus- 
pect that  a student  of  human  life  has  made  your  char- 
acter the  theme  of  more  than  one  solitary  and  thought- 
ful hour.  Many  would  say  that  you  have  hardly  indi- 
viduality enough  to  be  the  object  of  your  own  self-love. 
How,  then,  can  a stranger’s  eye  detect  any  thing  in 
your  mind  and  heart  to  study  and  to  wonder  at  ? Yet, 
could  I read  but  a tithe  of  what  is  written  there,  it 
would  be  a volume  of  deeper  and  more  comprehensive 
import  than  all  that  the  wisest  mortals  have  given  to 
the  world  ; for  the  soundless  depths  of  the  human  soul 
and  of  eternity  have  an  opening  through  your  breast. 
God  be  praised,  were  it  only  for  your  sake,  that  the 
present  shapes  of  human  existence  are  not  cast  in  iron 
nor  hewn  in  everlasting  adamant,  but  moulded  of  the 
vapors  that  vanish  away  while  the  essence  flits  upward 
to  the  infinite.  There  is  a spiritual  essence  in  this  gray 
and  lean  old  shape  that  shall  flit  upward  too.  Yes  ; 
doubtless  there  is  a region  where  the  lifelong  shiver 
will  pass  away  from  his  being,  and  that  quiet  sigh,  which 
it  has  taken  him  so  many  years  to  breathe,  will  be 
brought  to  a close  for  good  and  all. 


THE  ARTIST  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


An  elderly  man,  with  his  pretty  daughter  on  his  arm, 
was  passing  along  the  street,  and  emerged  from  the 
gloom  of  the  cloudy  evening  into  the  light  that  fell 
across  the  pavement  from  the  wdndow  of  a small  shop. 
It  was  a projecting  window  ; and  on  the  inside  were 
suspended  a variety  of  watches,  pinchbeck,  silver,  and 
one  or  two  of  gold,  all  with  their  faces  turned  from  the 
street,  as  if  churlishly  disinclined  to  inform  the  way- 
farers what  o’clock  it  was.  Seated  within  the  shop, 
sidelong  to  the  window,  with  his  pale  face  bent  ear- 
nestly over  some  delicate  piece  of  mechanism  on  which 
was  thrown  the  concentrated  lustre  of  a shade  lamp, 
appeared  a young  man. 

“ What  can  Owen  Warland  be  about  ? ” muttered  old 
Peter  Hovenden,  himself  a retired  watchmaker  and 
the  former  master  of  this  same  young  man  whose  oc- 
cupation he  was  now  wondering  at.  “ What  can  the 
fellow  be  about  ? These  six  months  past  I have  never 
come  by  his  shop  without  seeing  him  just  as  steadily  at 
work  as  now.  It  would  be  a flight  beyond  his  usual 
foolery  to  seek  for  the  perpetual  motion  ; and  yet  I 
know  enough  of  my  old  business  to  be  certain  that 
what  he  is  now  so  busy  with  is  no  part  of  the  ma- 
chinery of  a watch.” 


(240) 


THE  ARTIST  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


241 


44  Perhaps,  father,”  said  Annie,  without  showing 
much  interest  in  the  question,  44  Owen  is  inventing  a 
new  kind  of  timekeeper.  I am  sure  he  has  ingenuity 
enough.” 

44  Poh,  child  ! He  has  not  the  sort  of  ingenuity  to  in- 
vent any  thing  better  than  a Dutch  toy,”  answered  her 
father,  who  had  formerly  been  put  to  much  vexation  by 
Owen  Warland’s  irregular  genius.  44  A plague  on  such 
ingenuity  ! All  the  effect  that  ever  I knew  of  it  was, 
to  spoil  the  accuracy  of  some  of  the  best  watches  in  my 
shop.  He  would  turn  the  sun  out  of  its  orbit  and  de- 
range the  whole  course  of  time,  if,  as  I said  before,  his 
ingenuity  could  grasp  any  thing  bigger  than  a child’s 
toy  ! ” » 

44  Hush,  father ! He  hears  you  ! ” whispered  Annie, 
pressing  the  old  man’s  arm.  44  His  ears  are  as  delicate 
as  his  feelings  ; and  you  know  how  easily  disturbed  they 
are.  Do  let  us  move  on.” 

So  Peter  Hovenden  and  his  daughter  Annie  plodded 
on  without  further  conversation,  until  in  a by-street  of 
the  town  they  found  themselves  passing  the  open  door 
of  a blacksmith’s  shop.  Within  was  seen  the  forge, 
now  blazing  up  and  illuminating  the  high  and  dusky 
roof,  and  now  confining  its  lustre  to  a narrow  precinct 
of  the  coal-strewn  floor,  according  as  the  breath  of  the 
bellows  was  puffed  forth  or  again  inhaled  into  its  vast 
leathern  lungs.  In  the  intervals  of  brightness  it  was 
easy  to  distinguish  objects  in  remote  corners  of  the 
shop  and  the  horseshoes  that  hung  upon  the  wall ; in 
the  momentary  gloom  the  fire  seemed  to  be  glimmering 
amidst  the  vagueness  of  unenclosed  space.  Moving 
about  in  this  red  glare  and  alternate  dusk  was  the 

VOL.  IJf  16 


242 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


figure  of  the  blacksmith,  well  worthy  to  be  riewed  in 
so  picturesque  an  aspect  of  light  and  shade,  where  the 
bright  blaze  struggled  with  the  black  night,  as  if  each 
would  have  snatched  his  comely  strength  from  the  other. 
Anon  he  drew  a whitehot  bar  of  iron  from  the  coals, 
laid  it  on  the  anvil,  uplifted  his  arm  of  might,  and  was 
soon  enveloped  in  the  myriads  of  sparks  which  the 
strokes  of  his  hammer  scattered  into  the  surrounding 
gloom. 

44  Now,  that  is  a pleasant  sight,”  said  the  old  watch- 
maker. 44  I know  what  it  is  to  work  in  gold  ; but  give 
me  the  worker  in  iron  after  all  is  said  and  done.  He 
spends  his  labor  upon  a reality.  What  say  you,  daugh- 
ter Agnie  ? ” 

44  Pray  don’t  speak  so  loud,  father,”  whispered  Annie. 
u Robert  Danforth  will  hear  you.” 

46  And  what  if  he  should  hear  me  ? ” said  Peter  Ho- 
venden.  44  I say  again,  it  is  a good  and  a wholesome 
thing  to  depend  upon  main  strength  and  reality,  and  to 
earn  one’s  bread  with  the  bare  and  brawny  arm  of  a 
blacksmith.  A watchmaker  gets  his  brain  puzzled  by 
his  wheels  wjthin  a wheel,  or  loses  his  health  or  the  nicety 
of  his  eyesight,  as  was  my  case,  and  finds  himself  at 
middle  age,  or  a little  after,  past  labor  at  his  own  trade, 
and  fit  for  nothing  els'e,  yet  too  poor  to  live  at  his  ease. 
So  I say  once  again,  give  me  main  strength  for  my 
money.  And  then,  how  it  takes  the  nonsense  out  of  a 
man  ! Did  you  ever  hear  of  a blacksmith  being  such  a 
fool  as  Owen  Warland  yonder  ? ” 

44  Well  said,  uncle  Hovenden ! ” shouted  Robert 
Danforth  from  the  forge,  iit  a full,  deep,  merry  voice, 
that  made  the  roof  reecho.  44  And  what  says  Miss 


THE  ARTIST  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


213 


Annie  to  that  doctrine  ? She,  I suppose,  will  thinkdt  a 
genteeler  business  to  tinker  up  a lady’s  watch  than  to 
forge  a horseshoe  or  make  a gridiron.” 

Annie  drew  her  father  onward  without  giving  him 

time  for  reply. 

But  we  must  return  to  Owen  Warland’s  shop,  and 
spend  more  meditation  upon  his  history  and  character 
than  either  Peter  Hovenden,  or  probably  his  daughter 
Annie,  or  Owen’s  old  schoolfellow,  Robert  Danforth, 
would  have  thought  due  to  so  slight  a subject.  From 
the  time  that  his  little  fingers  could  grasp  a penknife, 
Owen  had  been  remarkable  for  a delicate  ingenuity, 
which  sometimes  produced  pretty  shapes  in  wood,  prin- 
cipally figures  of  flowers  and  birds,  and  sometimes 
seemed  to  aim  at  the  hidden  mysteries  of  mechanism. 
But  it  was  always  for  purposes  of  grace,  and  never  with 
any  mockery  of  the  useful.  Pie  did  not,  like  the  crowd 
of  schoolboy  artisans,  construct  little  windmills  on  the 
angle  of  a barn  or  watermills  across  the  neighboring 
brook.  Those  who  discovered  such  peculiarity  in  the 
boy  as  to  think  it  worth  their  while  to  observe  him 
closely,  sometimes 'saw  reason  to  suppose  that  he  was 
attempting  to  imitate  the  beautiful  movements  of  Na- 
ture as  exemplified  in  the  flight  of  birds  or  the  activity 
of  little  animals.  It  seemed,  in  fact,  a new  develop- 
ment of  the  love  of  the  beautiful,  such  as  might 
have  made  him  a poet,  a painter,  or  a sculptor, 
and  which  was  as  completely  refined  from  all  utilitarian 
coarseness  as  it  could  have  been  in  either  of  the  fine 
arts.  He  looked  with  singular  distaste  at  the  stiff  and 
regular  processes  of  ordinary  machinery.  Being  once 
carried  to  see  a steam  engine,  in  the  expectation  that 


244 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


liis  intuitive  comprehension  of  mechanical  principles 
would  be  gratified,  he  turned  pale  and  grew  sick,  as  if 
something  monstrous  and  unnatural  had  been  presented 
to  him.  This  horror  was  partly  owing  to  the  size  and 
terrible  energy  of  the  iron  laborer ; for  the  character  of 
Owen’s  mind  was  microscopic,  and  tended  naturally  to 
the  minute,  in  accordance  with  his  diminutive  frame 
and  the  marvellous  smallness  and  delicate  power  of  his 
fingers.  Not  that  his  sense  of  beauty  was  thereby  di- 
minished into  a sense  of  prettiness.  The  beautiful  idea 
has  no  relation  to  size,  and  may  be  as  perfectly  devel- 
oped in  a space  too  minute  for  any  but  microscopic  in- 
vestigation as  within  the  ample  verge  that  is  measured 
by  the  arc  of  the  rainbow.  But,  at  all  events,  this  char- 
acteristic minuteness  in  his  objects  and  accomplish- 
ments made  the  world  even  more  incapable  than  it 
might  otherwise  have  been  of  appreciating  Owen  War- 
land’s  genius.  The  boy’s  relatives  saw  nothing  better 
to  be  done  — as  perhaps  there  was  not  — than  to  bind 
him  apprentice  to  a watchmaker,  hoping  that  his  strange 
ingenuity  might  thus  be  regulated  and  put  to  utilitarian 
purposes. 

Peter  Hovenden’s  opinion  of  his  apprentice  has  al- 
ready been  expressed.  He  could  make  nothing  of  the 
lad.  Owen’s  apprehension  of  the  professional  myste- 
ries, it  is  true,  was  inconceivably  quick  ; but  he  alto- 
gether forgot  or  despised  the  grand  object  of  a watch- 
maker’s business,  and  cared  no  more  for  the  measure- 
ment of  time  than  if  it  had  been  merged  into  eternity. 
So  long,  however,  as  he  remained  under  his  old  mas- 
ter’s care,  Owen’s  lack  of  sturdiness  made  it  possible 
by  strict  injunctions  and  sharp  oversight,  to  restrain  his 


THE  ARTIST  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


215 


creative  eccentricity  within  bounds  ; but  when  bis  ap- 
prenticeship was  served  out,  and  be  had  taken  the  little 
shop  which  Peter  Hovenden’s  failing  eyesight  compelled 
him  to  relinquish,  then  did  people  recognize  how  unfit 
a person  was  Owen  Warland  to  lead  old  blind  Father 
Time  along  his  daily  course.  One  of  his  most  rational 
projects  was  to  connect  a musical  operation  with  the 
machinery  of  his  watches,  so  that  all  the  harsh  disso- 
nances of  life  might  be  rendered  tuneful,  and  each  flit- 
ting moment  fall  into  the  abyss  of  the  past  in  golden 
drops  of  harmony.  If  a family  clock  was  intrusted  to 
him  for  repair,  — one  of  those  tall,  ancient  clocks  that 
have  grown  nearly  allied  to  human  nature  by  measur- 
ing out  the  lifetime  of  many  generations,  — he  would 
take  upon  himself  to  arrange  a dance  or  funeral  proces- 
sion of  figures  across  its  venerable  face,  representing 
twelve  mirthful  or  melancholy  hours.  Several  freaks 
of  this  kind  quite  destroyed  the  young  watchmaker’s 
credit  with  that  steady  and  matter-of-fact  class  of  peo- 
ple who  hold  the  opinion  that  time  is  not  to  be  trifled 
with,  whether  considered  as  the  medium  of  advance- 
ment and  prosperity  in  this  world  or  preparation  for 
the  next.  His  custom  rapidly  diminished  — a misfor- 
tune, however,  that  was  probably  reckoned  among  his 
better  accidents  by  Owen  Warland,  who  was  becoming 
more  and  more  absorbed  in  a secret  occupation  which 
drew  all  his  science  and  manual  dexterity  into  itself, 
and  likewise  gave  full  employment  to  the  characteristic 
tendencies  of  his  genius.  This  pursuit  had  already  con 
sumed  many  months. 

After  the  old  watchmaker  and  his  pretty  daughte/ 
had  gazed  at  him  out  of  the  obscurity  of  the  street 


246 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


Owen  Warland  was  seized  with  a fluttering  of  the 
nerves,  which  made  his  hand  tremble  too  violently  to 
proceed  with  such  delicate  labor  as  he  was  now  en- 
gaged upon. 

“ It  was  Annie  herself!  ” murmured  he.  “ I should 
have  known  it,  by  this  throbbing  of  my  heart,  before  I 
heard  her  father’s  voice.  Ah,  how  it  throbs  ! I shall 
scarcely  be  able  to  work  again  on  this  exquisite  mech- 
anism to-night.  Annie  ! dearest  Annie  ! thou  shouldst 
give  firmness  to  my  heart  and  hand,  and  not  shake  them 
thus  ; for,  if  I strive  to  put  the  very  spirit  of  beauty  into 
form  and  give  it  motion,  it  is  for  thy  sake  alone.  O 
throbbing  heart,  be  quiet ! If  my  labor  be  thus  thwart- 
ed, there  will  come  vague  and  unsatisfied  dreams,  which 
will  leave  me  spiritless  to-morrow.” 

As  he  was  endeavoring  to  settle  himself  again  to  his 
task,  the  shop  door  opened  and  gave  admittance  to  no 
other  than  the  stalwart  figure  which  Peter  Hovenden 
had  paused  to  admire,  as  seen  amid  the  light  and  shad- 
ow of  the  blacksmith’s  shop.  Robert  Danforth  had 
brought  a little  anvil  of  his  own  manufacture,  and  pe- 
culiarly constructed,  which  the  young  artist  had  recent- 
ly bespoken.  Owen  examined  the  article,  and  pro- 
nounced it  fashioned  according  to  his  wish. 

“ Why,  yes,”  said  Robert  Danforth,  his  strong  voice 
filling  the  shop  as  with  the  sound  of  a bass  viol,  “ I con- 
sider myself  equal  to  any  thing  in  the  way  of  my  own 
trade ; though  I should  have  made  but  a poor  figure  at 
yours  with  such  a fist  as  this,”  added  he,  laughing,  as 
he  laid  his  vast  hand  beside  the  delicate  one  of  Owen. 
u But  what  then  ? I put  more  main  strength  into  one 
blow  of  my  sledge  hammer  than  all  that  you  have 


THE  ARTIST  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


247 


expended  since  you  were  a ’prentice.  Is  not  that  the 
truth  ? ” 

u Very  probably,”  answered  the  low  and  slender 
voice  of  Owen.  “ Strength  is  an  earthly  monster.  I 
make  no  pretensions  to  it.  My  force,  whatever  there 
may  be  of  it,  is  altogether  spiritual.” 

“ Well,  but,  Owen,  what  are  you  about  ? ” asked  his 
old  schoolfellow,  still  in  such  a hearty  volume  of  tone 
that  it  made  the  artist  shrink,  especially  as  the  question 
related  to  a subject  so  sacred  as  the  absorbing  dream  of 
his  imagination.  “ Folks  do  say  that  you  are  trying  to 
discover  the  perpetual  motion.” 

“ The  perpetual  motion  ? Nonsense  ! ” replied  Owen 
Warland,  with  a movement  of  disgust ; for  he  was  full 
of  little  petulances.  u It  can  never  be  discovered.  It 
is  a dream  that  may  delude  men  whose  brains  are  mys- 
tified with  matter,  but  not  me.  Besides,  if  such  a dis- 
covery were  possible,  it  would  not  be  worth  my  while 
to  make  it  only  to  have  the  secret  turned  to  such  pur- 
poses as  are  now  effected  by  steam  and  water  power. 
I am  not  ambitious  to  be  honored  with  the  paternity  of 
a new  kind  of  cotton  machine.” 

“ That  would  be  droll  enough  ! ” cried  the  black- 
smith, breaking  out  into  such  an  uproar  of  laughter 
that  Owen  himself  and  the  bell  glasses  on  his  work- 
board  quivered  in  unison.  “ No,  no,  Owen  ! No  child 
of  yours  will  have  iron  joints  and  sinews.  Well,  I won’t 
hindei  you  any  more.  Good  night,  Owen,  and  success  ; 
and  if  you  need  any  assistance,  so  far  as  a downright 
blow  of  hammer  upon  anvil  will  answer  the  purpose, 
I’m  your  man.” 

And  with  another  laugh  the  man  of  main  strength 
left  the  shop. 


248 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


“ How  strange  it  is,”  whispered  Owen  Warland  to 
himself,  leaning  his  head  upon  his  hand,  “ that  all  my 
musings,  my  purposes,  my  passion  for  the  beautiful, 
my  consciousness  of  power  to  create  it  — a finer,  more 
ethereal  power,  of  which  this  earthly  giant  can  have  no 
conception,  — all,  all,  look  so  vain  and  idle  whenever 
my  path  is  crossed  by  Robert  Danforth  ! He  would 
drive  me  mad  were  I to  meet  him  often.  His  hard, 
brute  force  darkens  and  confuses  the  spiritual  element 
within  me  ; but  I,  too,  will  be  strong  in  my  own  way. 
I will  not  yield  to  him.” 

He  took  from  beneath  a glass  a piece  of  minute  ma- 
chinery, which  he  set  in  the  condensed  light  of  his  lamp, 
and,  looking  intently  at  it  through  a magnifying  glass, 
proceeded  to  operate  with  a delicate  instrument  of 
steel.  In  an  instant,  however,  he  fell  back  in  his  chair 
and  clasped  his  hands,  with  a look  of  horror  on  his 
face  that  made  its  small  features  as  impressive  as  those 
of  a giant  would  have  been. 

“ Heaven  ! What  have  I done  ? ” exclaimed  he. 
u The  vapor,  the  influence  of  that  brute  force,  — it 
has  bewildered  me  and  obscured  my  perception.  I 
have  made  the  very  stroke  — the  fatal  stroke  — that  I 
have  dreaded  from  the  first.  It  is  all  over  — the  toil 
of  months,  the  object  of  my  life.  I am  ruined  ! ” 

And  there  he  sat,  in  strange  despair,  until  his  lamp 
flickered  in  the  socket  and  left  the  Artist  of  the  Beau- 
tiful in  darkness. 

Thus  it  is  that  ideas,  which  grow  up  within  the  im- 
agination and  appear  so  lovely  to  it  and  of  a value  be- 
yond whatever  men  call  valuable,  are  exposed  to  be 
shattered  and  annihilated  by  contact  with  the  practical. 


THE  ARTIST  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL.  PI9 

It  is  requisite  for  the  ideal  artist  to  possess  a force  of 
character  that  seems  hardly  compatible  with  its  delica- 
cy; he  must  keep  his  faith  in  himself  while  the  incred- 
ulous world  assails  him  with  its  utter  disbelief ; he  must 
stand  up  against  mankind  and  be  his  own  sole  disciple, 
both  as  respects  his  genius  and  the  objects  to  which  it  is 
directed. 

For  a time  Owen  Warland  succumbed  to  this  severe 
but  inevitable  test.  He  spent  a few  sluggish  weeks 
with  his  head  so  continually  resting  in  his  hands  that 
the  townspeople  had  scarcely  an  opportunity  to  see  his 
countenance.  When  at  last  it  was  again  uplifted  to 
the  light  of  day,  a cold,  dull,  nameless  change  was  per- 
ceptible upon  it.  In  the  opinion  of  Peter  Hovenden, 
however,  and  that  order  of  sagacious  understandings 
who  think  that  life  should  be  regulated,  like  clockwork, 
with  leaden  weights,  the  alteration  was  entirely  for  the 
better.  Owen  now,  indeed,  applied  himself  to  business 
with  dogged  industry.  It  was  marvellous  to  witness 
the  obtuse  gravity  with  which  he  would  inspect  the 
wheels  of  a great,  old  silver  watch  ; thereby  delighting 
the  owner,  in  whose  fob  it  had  been  worn  till  he  deemed 
it  a portion  of  his  own  life,  and  was  accordingly  jealous 
of  its  treatment.  In  consequence  of  the  good  report 
thus  acquired,  Owen  Warland  was  invited  by  the  proper 
authorities  to  regulate  the  clock  in  the  church  steeple. 
He  succeeded  so  admirably  in  this  matter  of  public  in- 
terest that  the  merchants  gruffly  acknowledged  his 
merits  on  ’Change  ; the  nurse  whispered  his  praises  as 
she  gave  the  potion  in  the  sick  chamber ; the  lover 
blessed  him  at  the  hour  of  appointed  interview ; and 
the  town  in  general  thanked  Owen  for  the  punctuality 


250 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


of  dinner  time.  In  a word,  the  heavy  weight  upon  his 
spirits  kept  every  thing  in  order,  not  merely  within  his 
own  system,  but  wheresoever  the  iron  accents  of  the 
church  clock  were  audible.  It  was  a circumstance, 
though  minute  yet  characteristic  of  his  present  state, 
that,  when  employed  to  engrave  names  or  initials  on 
silver  spoons,  he  now  wrote  the  requisite  letters  in  the 
plainest  possible  style,  omitting  a variety  of  fanciful 
flourishes  that  had  heretofore  distinguished  his  work  in 
this  kind. 

One  day,  during  the  era  of  this  happy  transforma- 
tion, old  Peter  Hovenden  came  to  visit  his  former  ap- 
prentice. 

“ Well,  Owen,”  said  he,  “ I am  glad  to  hear  such 
good  accounts  of  you  from  all  quarters,  and  especially 
from  the  town  clock  yonder,  which  speaks  in  your  com- 
mendation every  hour  of  the  twenty-four.  Only  get 
rid  altogether  of  your  nonsensical  trash  about  the  beau- 
tiful, which  I nor  nobody  else,  nor  yourself  to  boot, 
could  ever  understand,  — only  free  yourself  of  that,  and 
your  success  in  life  is  as  sure  as  daylight.  Why,  if 
you  go  on  in  this  way,  I should  even  venture  to  let  you 
doctor  this  precious  old  watch  of  mine  ; though,  except 
my  daughter  Annie,  I have  nothing  else  so  valuable  in 
the  world.” 

u I should  hardly  dare  touch  it,  sir,”  replied  Owen, 
in  a depressed  tone  ; for  he  was  weighed  down  by  his 
old  master’s  presence. 

“ In  time,”  said  the  latter,  — “in  time,  you  will  be 
capable  of  it.” 

The  old  watchmaker,  with  the  freedom  naturally 
consequent  on  his  former  authority,  went  on  inspecting 


THE  ARTIST  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


251 


the  work  which  Owen  had  in  hand  at  the  moment,  to- 
gether with  other  matters  that  were  in  progress.  The 
artist,  meanwhile,  could  scarcely  lift  his  head.  There 
was  nothing  so  antipodal  to  his  nature  as  this  man’s 
cold,  unimaginative  sagacity,  by  contact  with  which 
every  thing  was  converted  into  a dream  except  the 
densest  matter  of  the  physical  world.  Owen  groaned 
in  spirit  and  prayed  fervently  to  be  delivered  from 
him. 

“ But  what  is  this  ? ” cried  Peter  Hovenden  abrupt- 
ly, taking  up  a dusty  bell  glass,  beneath  which  appeared 
a mechanical  something,  as  delicate  and  minute  as  the 
system  of  a butterfly’s  anatomy.  “ What  have  we 
here  ? Owen  ! Owen  ! there  is  witchcraft  in  these  little 
chains,  and  wheels,  and  paddles.  See  ! with  one  pinch 
of  my  finger  and  thumb  I am  going  to  deliver  you  from 
all  future  peril.” 

“ For  Heaven’s  sake,”  screamed  Owen  Warland, 
springing  up  with  wonderful  energy,  “ as  you  would 
not  drive  me  mad,  do  not  touch  it ! The  slightest  press 
ure  of  your  finger  would  ruin  me  forever.” 

“ Aha,  young  man ! And  is  it  so  ? ” said  the  old 
watchmaker,  looking  at  him  with  just  enough  of  pene- 
tration to  torture  Owen’s  soul  with  the  bitterness  of 
worldly  criticism.  “ Well,  take  your  own  course  ; but 
I warn  you  again  that  in  this  small  piece  of  mechan- 
ism lives  your  evil  spirit.  Shall  I exorcise  him  ? ” 

“ You  are  my  evil  spirit,”  answered  Owen,  much  ex- 
cited, — u you  and  the  hard,  coarse  world  ! The  leaden 
thoughts  and  the  despondency  that  you  fling  upon  me 
are  my  clogs,  else  1 should  long  ago  have  achieved  the 
task  that  I was  created  for.” 


252 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


Peter  Hovenden  shook  his  head,  with  the  mixture  of 
contempt  and  indignation  which  mankind,  of  whom  he 
was  partly  a representative,  deem  themselves  entitled 
to  feel  towards  all  simpletons  who  seek  other  prizes 
than  the  dusty  one  along  the  highway.  He  then  took 
his  leave,  with  an  uplifted  finger  and  a sneer  upon  his 
face  that  haunted  the  artist’s  dreams  for  many  a night 
afterwards.  At  the  time  of  his  old  master’s  visit,  Owen 
was  probably  on  the  point  of  taking  up  the  relinquished 
task ; but,  by  this  sinister  event,  he  was  thrown  back 
into  the  state  whence  he  had  been  slowly  emerging. 

But  the  innate  tendency  of  his  soul  had  only  been 
accumulating  fresh  vigor  during  its  apparent  sluggish- 
ness. As  the  summer  advanced  he  almost  totally  re- 
linquished his  business,  and  permitted  Father  Time,  so 
far  as  the  old  gentleman  was  represented  by  the  clocks 
and  watches  under  his  control,  to  stray  at  random 
through  human  life,  making  infinite  confusion  among 
the  train  of  bewildered  hours.  He  wasted  the  sunshine, 
as  people  said,  in  wandering  through  the  woods  and 
fields  and  along  the  banks  of  streams.  There,  like  a 
child,  he  found  amusement  in  chasing  butterflies  or 
watching  the  motions  of  water  insects.  There  was 
something  truly  mysterious  in  the  intentness  with  which 
he  contemplated  these  living  playthings  as  they  sported 
on  the  breeze  or  examined  the  structure  of  an  imperial 
insect  whom  he  had  imprisoned.  The  chase  of  butter- 
flies was  an  apt  emblem  of  the  ideal  pursuit  in  which 
he  had  spent  so  many  golden  hours ; but  would  the 
beautiful  idea  ever  be  yielded  to  his  hand  like  the  but- 
terfly that  symbolized  it  ? Sweet,  doubtless,  were  these 
days,  and  congenial  to  the  artist’s  soul.  They  were 


THE  ARTIST  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


253 


full  of  bright  conceptions,  which  gleamed  through  his 
intellectual  world  as  the  butterflies  gleamed  through 
the  outward  atmosphere,  and  were  real  to  him,  for  the 
instant,  without  the  toil,  and  perplexity,  and  many  dis- 
appointments of  attempting  to  make  them  visible  to  the 
sensual  eye.  Alas  that  the  artist,  whether  in  poetry  or 
whatever  other  material,  may  not  content  himself  with 
the  inward  enjoyment  of  the  beautiful,  but  must  chase 
the  flitting  mystery  beyond  the  verge  of  his  ethereal 
domain,  and  crush  its  frail  being  in  seizing  it  with  a 
material  grasp.  Owen  Warland  felt  the  impulse  to 
give  external  reality  to  his  ideas  as  irresistibly  as  any 
of  the  poets  or  painters  who  have  arrayed  the  world  in 
a dimmer  and  fainter  beauty,  imperfectly  copied  from 
the  richness  of  their  visions. 

The  night  was  now  his  time  for  the  slow  progress  of 
re-creating  the  one  idea  to  which  all  his  intellectual  ac- 
tivity referred  itself.  Always  at  the  approach  of  dusk 
he  stole  into  the  town,  locked  himself  within  his  shop, 
and  wrought  with  patient  delicacy  of  touch  for  many 
hours.  Sometimes  he  was  startled  by  the  rap  of  the 
watchman,  who,  when  all  the  world  should  be  asleep, 
had  caught  the  gleam  of  lamplight  through  the  crevices 
of  Owen  Warland’s  shutters.  Daylight,  to  the  morbid 
sensibility  of  his  mind,  seemed  to  have  an  intrusiveness 
that  interfered  with  his  pursuits.  On  cloudy  and  in- 
clement days,  therefore,  he  sat  with  his  head  upon  his 
hands,  muffling,  as  it  were,  his  sensitive  brain  in  a mist 
of  indefinite  musings  ; for  it  was  a relief  to  escape  from 
the  sharp  distinctness  with  which  he  was  compelled  to 
shape  out  his  thoughts  during  his  nightly  toil. 

From  one  of  these  fits  of  torpor  he  was  aroused  by 


*«254  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

the  entrance  of  Annie  Hovenden,  who  came  into  the 
shop  with  the  freedom  of  a customer  and  also  with 
something  of  the  familiarity  of  a childish  friend.  She 
had  worn  a hole  through  her  silver  thimble,  and  wanted 
Owen  to  repair  it. 

44  But  I don’t  know  whether  you  will  condescend  to 
such  a task,”  said  she,  laughing,  44  now  that  you  are 
so  taken  up  with  the  notion  of  putting  spirit  into  ma- 
chinery.” 

44  Where  did  you  get  that  idea,  Annie  ? ” said  Owen, 
starting  in  surprise. 

44  O,  out  of  my  own  head,”  answered  she, 44  and  from 
something  that  I heard  you  say,  long  ago,  when  you 
were  but  a. boy  and  I a little  child.  But  come;  will 
you  mend  this  poor  thimble  of  mine  ? ” 

44  Any  thing  for  your  sake,  Annie,”  said  Owen  War- 
land, — any  thing,  even  were  it  to  work  at  Robert  Dan- 
forth’s  forge.” 

44  And  that  would  be  a pretty  sight ! ” retorted  Annie, 
glancing  with  imperceptible  slightness  at  the  artist’s 
small  and  slender  frame.  44  Well ; here  is  the  thim- 
ble.” 

44  But  that  is  a strange  idea  of  yours,”  said  Owen, 
44  about  the  spiritualization  of  matter.” 

And  then  the  thought  stole  into  his  mind  that  this 
young  girl  possessed  the  gift  to  comprehend  him  better 
than  all  the  world  besides.  And  what  a help  and 
strength  would  it  be  to  him  in  his  lonely  toil  if  he 
could  gain  the  sympathy  of  the  only  being  whom  he 
loved  ! To  persons  whose  pursuits  are  insulated  from 
the  common  business  of  life  — who  are  either  ; ^ 
vance  of  mankind  or  apart  from  it  — there  often  . 


THE  ARTIST  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


255 


a sensation  of  moral  cold  that  makes  the  spirit  shiver 
as  if  it  had  reached  the  frozen  solitudes  around  the 
pole.  What  the  prophet,  the  poet,  the  reformer,  the 
criminal,  or  any  other  man  with  human  yearnings,  hut 
separated  from  the  multitude  by  a peculiar  lot,  might 
feel,  poor  Owen  Warland  felt. 

“Annie,”  cried  he,  growing  pale  as  death  at  the 
thought,  44  how  gladly  would  I tell  you  the  secret  of  my 
pursuit!  You,  methinks,  would  estimate  it  rightly. 
You,  I know,  would  hear  it  with  a reverence  that  I 
must  not  expect  from  the  harsh,  material  world.” 

44  Would  I not  ? to  be  sure  I would  ! ” replied  Annie 
Hovenden,  lightly  laughing.  44  Come  ; explain  to  me 
quickly  what  is  the  meaning  of  this  little  whirligig,  so 
delicately  wrought  that  it  might  be  a plaything  for 
Queen  Mab.  See  ! I will  put  it  in  motion.” 

44  Hold  ! ” exclaimed  Owen,  “ hold  ! ” 

Annie  had  but  given  the  slightest  possible  touch,  with 
the  point  of  a needle,  to  the  same  minute  portion  of 
complicated  machinery  which  has  been  more  than  once 
mentioned,  when  the  artist  seized  her  by  the  wrist  with 
a force  that  made  her  scream  aloud.  She  was  affright- 
ed at  the  convulsion  of  intense  rage  and  anguish  that 
writhed  across  his  features.  The  next  instant  he  let 
his  head  sink  upon  his  hands. 

44  Go,  Annie,”  murmured  he  ; “I  have  deceived  my- 
self, and  must  suffer  for  it.  I yearned  for  sympathy, 
and  thought,  and  fancied,  and  dreamed  that  you  might 
give  it  me  ; but  you  lack  the  talisman,  Annie,  that 
should  admit  you  into  my  secrets.  That  touch  has  un- 
done the  toil  of  months  and  the  thought  of  a lifetime  ! 
It  was  not  your  fault,  Annie  ; but  you  have  ruined  me  ! ” 


256 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


Poor  Owen  Warland ! He  had  indeed  erred,  yet 
pardonably  ; for  if  any  human  spirit  could  have  suffi- 
ciently reverenced  the  processes  so  sacred  in  his  eyes, 
it  must  have  been  a woman’s.  Even  Annie  Hovenden, 
possibly,  might  not  have  disappointed  him  had  she 
been  enlightened  by  the  deep  intelligence  of  love. 

The  artist  spent  the  ensuing  winter  in  a way  that  sat- 
isfied any  persons  who  had  hitherto  retained  a hopeful 
opinion  of  him  that  he  was,  in  truth,  irrevocably  doomed 
to  inutility  as  regarded  the  world,  and  to  an  evil  destiny 
on  his  own  part.  The  decease  of  a relative  had  put 
him  in  possession  of  a small  inheritance.  Thus  freed 
from  the  necessity  of  toil,  and  having  lost  the  steadfast 
influence  of  a great  purpose,  — great,  at  least,  to  him,  — 
he  abandoned  himself  to  habits  from  which  it  might 
have  been  supposed  the  mere  delicacy  of  his  organiza- 
tion would  have  availed  to  secure  him.  But,  when  the 
ethereal  portion  of  a man  of  genius  is  obscured,  the 
earthly  part  assumes  an  influence  the  more  uncontrolla- 
ble, because  the  character  is  now  thrown  off  the  balance 
to  which  Providence  had  so  nicely  adjusted  it,  and 
which,  in  coarser  natures,  is  adjusted  by  some  other 
method.  Owen  Warland  made  proof  of  whatever  show 
of  bliss  may  be  found  in  riot.  He  looked  at  the  world 
through  the  golden  medium  of  wine,  and  contemplated 
the  visions  that  bubble  up  so  gayly  around  the  brim  of 
the  glass,  and  that  people  the  air  with  shapes  of  pleasant 
madness,  which  so  soon  grow  ghostly  and  forlorn. 
Even  when  this  dismal  and  inevitable  change  had  taken 
place,  the  young  man  might  still  have  continued  to  quaff 
the  cup  of  enchantments,  though  its  vapor  did  but 
shroud  life  in  gloom  and  fill  the  gloom  with  spectres 


THE  ARTIST  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


257 


that  mocked  at  him.  There  was  a certain  irksomeness 
of  spirit,  which,  being  real,  and  the  deepest  sensation 
of  which  the  artist  was  now  conscious,  was  more  intol- 
erable than  any  fantastic  miseries  and  horrors  that  the 
abuse  of  wine  could  summon  up.  In  the  latter  case  he 
could  remember,  even  out  of  the  .midst  of  his  trouble, 
that  all  was  but  a delusion  ; in  the  former,  the  heavy 
anguish  was  his  actual  life. 

From  this  perilous  state  he  was  redeemed  by  an  in- 
cident which  more  than  one  person  witnessed,  but  of 
which  the  shrewdest  could  not  explain  or  conjecture  the 
operation  on  Owen  Warland’s  mind.  It  was  very  sim- 
ple. On  a warm  afternoon  of  spring,  as  the  artist  sat 
among  his  riotous  companions  with  a glass  of  wine  be- 
fore him,  a splendid  butterfly  flew  in  at  the  open  win- 
dow and  fluttered  about  his  head, 

u Ah,”  exclaimed  Owen,  who  had  drank  freely, 
“are  you  alive  again,  child  of  the  sun  and  playmate 
of  the  summer  breeze,  after  your  dismal  winter’s  nap  ? 
Then  it  is  time  for  me  to  be  at  work  ! ” 

And,  leaving  his  unemptied  glass  upon  the  table,  he 
departed,  and  was  never  known  to  sip  another  drop  of 
wine. 

And  now,  again,  he  resumed  his  wanderings  in  the 
woods  and  fields.  It  might  be  fancied  that  the  bright 
butterfly,  which  had  come  so  spirit-like  into  the  window 
as  Owen  sat  with  the  rude  revellers,  was  indeed  a spirit 
commissioned  to  recall  him  to  the  pure,  ideal  life  that  had 
so  ethereal ized  him  among  men.  It  might  be  fancied 
that  he  went  forth  to  seek  this  spirit  in  its  sunny  haunts  ; 
for  still,  as  in  the  summer  time  gone  by,  he  was  seen 
to  steal  gently  up  wherever  a butterfly  had  alighted, 
VOL.  11.  17 


258 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


and  lose  himself  in  contemplation  of  it.  When  it  took 
flight  his  eyes  followed  the  winged  vision,  as  if  its  airy 
track  would  show  the  path  to  heaven.  But  what  could 
be  the  purpose  of  the  unseasonable  toil,  which  was 
again  resumed,  as  the  watchman  knew  by  the  lines  of 
lamplight  through  the  crevices  of  Owen  Warland’s 
shutters  ? The  townspeople  had  one  comprehensive 
explanation  of  all  these  singularities.  Owen  Warland 
had  gone  mad!  How  universally  efficacious— how 
satisfactory,  too,  and  soothing  to  the  injured  sensibility 
of  narrowness  and  dulness  — is  this  easy  method  of 
accounting  for  whatever  lies  beyond  the  world’s  most 
ordinary  scope ! From  St.  Paul’s  days  down  to  our 
poor  little  Artist  of  the  Beautiful,  the  same  talisman 
had  been  applied  to  the  elucidation  of  all  mysteries  in 
the  words  or  deeds  of  men  who  spoke  or  acted  too 
wisely  or  too  well.  In  Owen  Warland’s  case  the  judg- 
ment of  his  townspeople  may  have  been  correct.  Per- 
haps he  was  mad.  The  lack  of  sympathy  — that  con- 
trast between  himself  and  his  neighbors  which  took 
away  the  restraint  of  example  — was  enough  to  make 
him  so.  Or  possibly  he  had  caught  just  so  much  of 
ethereal  radiance  as  served  to  bewilder  him,  in  an 
earthly  sense,  by  its  intermixture  with  the  common 
daylight. 

One  evening,  when  the  artist  had  returned  from  a 
customary  ramble  and  had  just  thrown  the  lustre  of  his 
lamp  on  the  delicate  piece  of  work  so  often  interrupted, 
but  still  taken  up  again,  as  if  his  fate  were  imbodied  in 
its  mechanism,  he  was  surprised  by  the  entrance  of  old 
Peter  Hovenden.  Owen  never  met  this  man  without  a 
shrinking  of  the  heart.  Of  all  the  world  he  was  most 


THE  ARTIST  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


259 


terrible,  by  reason  of  a keen  understanding  which  saw 
so  distinctly  what  it  did  see,  and  disbelieved  so  uncom- 
promisingly in  what  it  could  not  see.  On  this  occasion 
the  old  watchmaker  had  merely  a gracious  word  or  two 
to  say. 

“ Owen,  my  lad,”  said  he,  “we  must  see  you  at  my 
house  to-morrow  night.” 

The  artist  began  to  mutter  some  excuse. 

“ O,  but  it  must  be  so,”  quoth  Peter  Plovenden,  “ for 
the  sake  of  the  days  when  you  were  one  of  the  house- 
hold. What,  my  boy  ! don’t  you  know  that  my  daugh- 
ter Annie  is  engaged  to  Robert  Danforth  ? We  are 
making  an  entertainment,  in  our  humble  way,  to  cele- 
brate the  event. 

“ Ah  ! ” said  Owen. 

That  little  monosyllable  was  all  he  uttered  ; its  tone 
seemed  cold  and  unconcerned  to  an  ear  like  Peter  Ho- 
venden’s ; and  yet  there  was  in  it  the  stifled  outcry  of 
the  poor  artist’s  heart,  which  he  compressed  within 
him  like  a man  holding  down  an  evil  spirit.  One 
slight  outbreak,  however,  imperceptible  to  the  old 
watchmaker,  he  allowed  himself.  Raising  the  instru- 
ment with  which  he  was  about  to  begin  his  work,  he 
let  it  fall  upon  the  little  system  of  machinery  that  had, 
anew,  cost  him  months  of  thought  and  toil.  It  was 
shattered  by  the  stroke  ! 

Owen  Warland’s  story  would  have  been  no  tolerable 
representation  of  the  troubled  life  of  those  who  strive 
to  create  the  beautiful,  if,  amid  all  other  thwarting  in- 
fluences, love  had  not  interposed  to  steal  the  cunning 
from  his  hand.  Outwardly  he  had  been  no  ardent  or 
enterprising  lover ; the  career  of  his  passion  had  con- 


260 


MOSSES  FEO:-I  AN  OLD  3IANSF 


fined  its  tumults  and  vicissitudes  so  entirely  within  the 
artist’s  imagination  that  Annie  herself  had  scarcely 
more  than  a woman’s  intuitive  perception  of  it ; but,  in 
Owen’s  view,  it  covered  the  whole  field  of  his  life. 
Forgetful  of  the  time  when  she  had  shown  herself  in- 
capable of  any  deep  response,  he  had  persisted  in  con- 
necting all  his  dreams  of  artistical  success  with  Annie’s 
image  ; she  was  the  visible  shape  in  which  the  spiritual 
power  that  he  worshipped,  and  on  whose  altar  he  hoped 
to  lay  a not  unworthy  offering,  was  made  manifest  to 
him.  Of  course  he  had  deceived  himself;  there  were 
no  such  attributes  in  Annie  Hovenden  as  his  imagina- 
tion had  endowed  her  with.  She,  in  the  aspect  which 
she  wore  to  his  inward  vision,  was  as  much  a creature 
of  his  own  as  the  mysterious  piece  of  mechanism  would 
be  were  it  ever  realized.  Had  he  become  convinced  of 
his  mistake  through  the  medium  of  successful  love, — 
had  he  won  Annie  to  his  bosom,  and  there  beheld  her 
fade  from  angel  into  ordinary  woman,  — the  disappoint- 
ment might  have  driven  him  back,  with  concentrated 
energy,  upon  his  sole  remaining  object.  On  the  other 
hand,  had  he  found  Annie  what  he  fancied,  his  lot 
would  have  been  so  rich  in  beauty  that  out  of  its  mere 
redundancy  he  might  have  wrought  the  beautiful  into 
many  a worthier  type  than  he  had  toiled  for ; but  the 
guise  in  which  his  sorrow  came  to  him,  the  sense  that 
tDe  angel  of  his  life  had  been  snatched  away  and  given 
to  a rude  man  of  earth  and  iron,  who  could  neither  need 
nor  appreciate  her  ministrations,  — this  was  the  very 
perversity  of  fate  that  makes  human  existence  appear 
too  absurd  and  contradictory  to  be  the  scene  of  one 
other  hope  or  one  other  fear.  There  was  nothing  left 


THE  ARTIST  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


261 


for  Owen  Warland  but  to  sit  down  like  a man  that  had 
ueen  stunned. 

He  went  through  a fit  of  illness.  After  his  recovery 
his  small  and  slender  frame  assumed  an  obtuser  garni- 
ture of  flesh  than  it  had  ever  before  worn.  His  thin 
cheeks  became  round  ; his  delicate  little  hand,  so  spirit- 
ually fashioned  to  achieve  fairy  taskwork,  grew  plump- 
er than  the  hand  of  a thriving  infant.  His  aspect  had 
a childishness  such  as  might  have  induced  a stranger 
to  pat  him  on  the  head  — pausing,  however,  in  the  act, 
to  wonder  what  manner  of  child  was  here.  It  was  as 
if  the  spirit  had  gone  out  of  him,  leaving  the  body  to 
flourish  in  a sort  of  vegetable  existence.  Not  that 
Owen  Warland  was  idiotic.  He  could  talk,  and  not  ir- 
rationally. Somewhat  of  a babbler,  indeed,  did  people 
begin  to  think  him  ; for  he  was  apt  to  discourse  at  wea- 
risome length  of  marvels  of  mechanism  that  he  had 
read  about  in  books,  but  which  he  had  learned  to  con- 
sider as  absolutely  fabulous.  Among  them  he  enumer- 
ated the  Man  of  Brass,  constructed  by  Albertus  Mag- 
nus, and  the  Brazen  Head  of  Friar  Bacon  ; and,  coming 
down  to  later  times,  the  automata  of  a little  coach  and 
horses,  which  it  was  pretended  had  been  manufactured 
for  the  Dauphin  of  France  ; together  with  an  insect  that 
buzzed  about  the  ear  like  a living  fly,  and  yet  was  but 
a contrivance  of  minute  steel  springs.  There  was  a 
story,  too,  of  a duck  that  waddled,  and  quacked,  and 
ate ; though,  had  any  honest  citizen  purchased  it  for 
dinner,  he  would  have  found  himself  cheated  with  the 
mere  mechanical  apparition  of  a duck. 

“ But  all  these  accounts,”  said  Owen  Warland,  “ I 
am  now  satisfied  are  mere  impositions.” 


2b2  MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 

Then,  in  a mysterious  way,  he  would  confess  that  he 
once  thought  differently.  In  his  idle  and  dreamy  days 
he  had  considered  it  possible,  in  a certain  sense,  to 
spiritualize  machinery,  and  to  combine  with  the  new 
species  of  life  and  motion  thus  produced  a beauty  that 
should  attain  to  the  ideal  which  Nature  has  proposed  to 
herself  in  all  her  creatures,  but  has  never  taken  pains 
to  realize.  He  seemed,  however,  to  retain  no  very  dis- 
tinct perception  either  of  the  process  of  achieving  this 
object  or  of  the  design  itself. 

“ I have  thrown  it  all  aside  now,”  he  would  say.  “ It 
was  a dream  such  as  young  men  are  always  mystifying 
themselves  with.  Now  that  I have  acquired  a little 
common  sense,  it  makes  me  laugh  to  think  of  it.” 

Poor,  poor  and  fallen  Owen  Warland  ! These  were 
the  symptoms  that  he  had  ceased  to  be  an  inhabitant 
of  the  better  sphere  that  lies  unseen  around  us.  He 
had  lost  his  faith  in  the  invisible,  and  now  prided  him- 
self, as  such  unfortunates  invariably  do,  in  the  wisdom 
which  rejected  much  that  even  his  eye  could  see,  and 
trusted  confidently  in  nothing  but  what  his  hand  could 
touch.  This  is  the  calamity  of  men  whose  spiritual 
part  dies  out  of  them  and  leaves  the  grosser  understand- 
ing to  assimilate  them  more  and  more  to  the  things  of 
which  alone  it  can  take  cognizance  ; but  in  Owen  War- 
land  the  spirit  was  not  dead  nor  passed  away ; it  only 
slept. 

How  it  awoke  again  is  not  recorded.  Perhaps  the 
torpid  slumber  was  broken  by  a convulsive  pain.  Per- 
haps, as  in  a former  instance,  the  butterfly  came  and 
hovered  about  his  head  and  reinspired  him,  — as  in- 
leed  this  creature  of  the  sunshine  had  always  a myste- 


TIIE  ARTIST  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


263 


rious  mission  for  the  artist,  — reinspired  him  with  the 
former  purpose  of  his  life.  Whether  it  were  pain  or 
happiness  that  thrilled  through  his  veins,  his  first  im- 
pulse was  to  thank  Heaven  for  rendering  him  again  the 
being  of  thought,  imagination,  and  keenest  sensibility 
that  he  had  long  ceased  to  be. 

“ Now  for  my  task,”  said  he.  “ Never  did  I feel 
such  strength  for  it  as  now.” 

Yet,  strong  as  he  felt  himself,  he  was  incited  to  toil 
the  more  diligently  by  an  anxiety  lest  death  should  sur- 
prise him  in  the  midst  of  his  labors.  This  anxiety, 
perhaps,  is  common  to  all  men  who  set  their  hearts 
upon  any  thing  so  high,  in  their  own  view  of  it,  that  life 
becomes  of  importance  only  as  conditional  to  its  ac- 
complishment. So  long  as  we  love  life  for  itself,  we 
seldom  dread  the  losing  it.  When  we  desire  life  for  the 
attainment  of  an  object,  we  recognize  the  frailty  of  its 
texture.  But,  side  by  side  with  this  sense  of  insecurity, 
there  is  a vital  faith  in  our  invulnerability  to  the  shaft 
of  death  while  engaged  in  any  task  that  seems  assigned 
by  Providence  as  our  proper  thing  to  do,  and  which  the 
world  would  have  cause  to  mourn  for  should  we  leave 
it  unaccomplished.  Can  the  philosopher,  big  with  the 
inspiration  of  an  idea  that  is  to  reform  mankind,  be- 
lieve that  he  is  to  be  beckoned  from  this  sensible  exist- 
ence at  the  very  instant  when  he  is  mustering  his 
breath  to  speak  the  word  of  light  ? Should  he  perish 
so,  the  weary  ages  may  pass  away  — the  world’s  whole 
life  sand  may  fall,  drop  by  drop  — before  another  intel- 
lect is  prepared  to  develop  the  truth  that  might  have 
been  uttered  then.  But  history  affords  many  an  exam- 
ple where  the  most  precious  spirit,  at  any  particular 


264 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


epoch  manifested  in  human  shape,  has  gone  hence  un- 
timely, without  space  allowed  him,  so  far  as  mortal 
judgment  could  discern,  to  perform  his  mission  on  the 
earth.  The  prophet  dies,  and  the  man  of  torpid  heart 
and  sluggish  brain  lives  on.  The  poet  leaves  his  song 
half  sung,  or  finishes  it  beyond  the  scope  of  mortal 
ears,  in  a celestial  choir.  The  painter — as  Allston 
did  — leaves  half  his  conception  on  the  canvas  to  sad- 
den us  with  its  imperfect  beauty,  and  goes  to  picture 
forth  the  whole,  if  it  be  no  irreverence  to  say  so,  in  the 
hues  of  heaven.  But  rather  such  incomplete  designs 
of  this  life  will  be  perfected  nowhere.  This  so  frequent 
abortion  of  man’s  dearest  projects  must  be  taken  as  a 
proof  that  the  deeds  of  earth,  however  etherealized  by 
piety  or  genius,  are  without  value,  except  as  exercises 
and  manifestations  of  the  spirit.  In  heaven,  all  ordi- 
nary thought  is  higher  and  more  melodious  than  Mil- 
ton’s song.  Then,  would  he  add  another  verse  to  any 
strain  that  he  had  left  unfinished  here  ? 

But  to  return  to  Owen  Warland.  It  was  his  fortune, 
good  or  ill,  to  achieve  the  purpose  of  his  life.  Pass 
we  over  a long  space  of  intense  thought,  yearning  ef- 
fort, minute  toil,  and  wasting  anxiety,  succeeded  by  an 
instant  of  solitary  triumph : let  all  this  be  imagined  ; 
and  then  behold  the  artist,  on  a winter  evening,  seeking 
admittance  to  Robert  Danforth’s  fireside  circle.  There 
he  found  the  man  of  iron,  with  his  massive  substance, 
thoroughly  warmed  and  attempered  by  domestic  in- 
fluences. And  there  was  Annie,  too,  now  transformed 
into  a matron,  with  much  of  her  husband’s  plain  and 
sturdy  nature,  but  imbued,  as  Owen  Warland  still  be- 
lieved, with  a finer  grace,  that  might  enable  her  to  be 


THE  ARTIST  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


265 


the  interpreter  between  strength  and  beauty.  It  hap- 
pened, likewise,  that  old  Peter  Hovenden  was  a guest 
this  evening  at  his  daughter’s  fireside  ; and  it  was  his 
well-remembered  expression  of  keen,  cold  criticism 
that  first  encountered  the  artist’s  glance. 

“ My  old  friend  Owen ! ” cried  Robert  Danforth, 
starting  up,  and  compressing  the  artist’s  delicate  fingers 
within  a hand  that  was  accustomed  to  gripe  bars  of  iron. 
“ This  is  kind  and  neighborly  to  come  to  us  at  last. 
I was  afraid  your  perpetual  motion  had  bewitched  you 
out  of  the  remembrance  of  old  times.” 

“ We  are  glad  to  see  you,”  said  Annie,  while  a 
blush  reddened  her  matronly  cheek.  “ It  was  not  like 
a friend  to  stay  from  us  so  long.” 

“ Well,  Owen,”  inquired  the  old  watchmaker,  as  his 
first  greeting,  “ how  comes  on  the  beautiful  ? Have 
you  created  it  at  last  ? ” 

The  artist  did  not  immediately  reply,  being  startled 
by  the  apparition  of  a young  child  of  strength  that  was 
tumbling  about  on  the  carpet  — a little  personage  who 
had  come  mysteriously  out  of  the  infinite,  but  with 
something  so  sturdy  and  real  in  his  composition  that  he 
seemed  moulded  out  of  the  densest  substance  which 
earth  could  supply.  This  hopeful  infant  crawled  to- 
wards the  new  comer,  and  setting  himself  on  end,  as 
Robert  Danforth  expressed  the  posture,  stared  at 
Owen  with  a look  of  such  sagacious  observation  that 
the  mother  could  not  help  exchanging  a proud  glance 
with  her  husband.  But  the  artist  was  disturbed  by  the 
child’s  look,  as  imagining  a resemblance  between  it 
and  Peter  Hovenden’s  habitual  expression.  He  could 
have  fancied  that  the  old  watchmaker  was  compressed 


266 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


into  this  baby  shape,  and  looking  out  of  those  baby 
eyes,  and  repeating,  as  he  now  did,  the  malicious 
question  : — 

“ The  beautiful,  Owen ! How  comes  on  the  beau- 
tiful ? Have  you  succeeded  in  creating  the  beautiful  ? ” 
u I have  succeeded,”  replied  the  artist,  with  a mo- 
mentary light  of  triumph  in  his  eyes  and  a smile  of 
sunshine,  yet  steeped  in  such  depth  of  thought  that  it 
was  almost  sadness.  u Yes,  my  friends,  it  is  the  truth. 
I have  succeeded.” 

“ Indeed ! ” cried  Annie,  a look  of  maiden  mirthful- 
ness peeping  out  of  her  face  again.  “ And  is  it  lawful, 
now,  to  inquire  what  the  secret  is  ? ” 

“ Surely  ; it  is  to  disclose  it  that  I have  come,”  an- 
swered Owen  Warland.  “ You  shall  know,  and  see, 
and  touch,  and  possess  the  secret ! For,  Annie,  — if 
by  that  name  I may  still  address  the  friend  of  my  boy- 
ish years,  — Annie,  it  is  for  your  bridal  gift  that  I have 
wrought  this  spiritualized  mechanism,  this  harmony  of 
motion,  this  mystery  of  beauty.  It  comes  late  indeed ; 
but  it  is  as  we  go  onward  in  life,  when  objects  begin  to 
lose  their  freshness  of  hue  and  our  souls  their  delicacy 
of  perception,  that  the  spirit  of  beauty  is  most  needed. 
If,  — forgive  me,  Annie,  — if  you  know  how  to  value 
this  gift,  it  can  never  come  too  late.” 

He  produced,  as  he  spoke,  what  seemed  a jewel  box. 
It  was  carved  richly  out  of  ebony  by  his  own  hand,  and 
inlaid  with  a fanciful  tracery  of  pearl,  representing  a 
boy  in  pursuit  of  a butterfly,  which,  elsewhere,  had  be- 
come a winged  spirit,  and  was  flying  heavenward  ; 
while  the  boy,  or  youth,  had  found  such  efficacy  in  his 
strong  desire  that  he  ascended  from  earth  to  cloud,  and 


THE  ARTIST  OF  THE  k BEAUTIFUL. 


267 


from  cloud  to  celestial  atmosphere,  to  win  the  beautiful. 
This  case  of  ebony  the  artist  opened,  and  bade  Annie 
place  her  finger  on  its  edge.  She  did  so,  but  almost 
screamed  as  a butterfly  fluttered  forth,  and,  alighting 
on  her  finger’s  tip,  sat  waving  the  ample  magnificence 
of  its  purple  and  gold-speckled  wings,  as  if  in  prelude , 
to  a flight.  It  is  impossible  to  express  by  words  the 
glory,  the  splendor,  the  delicate  gorgeousness  which 
were  softened  into  the  beauty  of  this  object.  Nature’s 
ideal  butterfly  was  here  realized  in  all  its  perfection  ; 
not  in  the  pattern  of  such  faded  insects  as  flit  among 
earthly  flowers,  but  of  those  which  hover  across  the 
meads  of  paradise  for  child-angels  and  the  spirits  of 
departed  infants  to  disport  themselves  with.  The  rich 
down  was  visible  upon  its  wings  ; the  lustre  of  its  eyes 
seemed  instinct  with  spirit.  The  firelight  glimmered 
around  this  wonder  — the  candles  gleamed  upon  it; 
but  it  glistened  apparently  by  its  own  radiance,  and  il- 
luminated the  finger  and  outstretched  hand  on  which  it 
rested  with  a white  gleam  like  that  of  precious  stones. 
In  its  perfect  beauty,  the  consideration  of  size  was  en- 
tirely lost.  Had  its  wings  overreached  the  firmament, 
the  mind  could  not  have  been  more  filled  or  satisfied. 

“ Beautiful ! beautiful ! ” exclaimed  Annie.  “ Is  h 
alive  ? Is  it  alive  ? ” 

“ Alive  ? To  be  sure  it  is,”  answered  her  husband. 
“ Do  you  suppose  any  mortal  has  skill  enough  to  make 
a butterfly,  or  would  put  himself  to  the  trouble  of 
making  one,  when  any  child  may  catch  a score  of  them 
in  a summer’s  afternoon  ? Alive  ? Certainly  ! But 
this  pretty  box  is  undoubtedly  of  our  friend  Owen’s 
manufacture  ; and  really  it  does  him  credit.” 


268 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE, 


At  this  moment  the  butterfly  waved  its  wings  anew, 
with  a motion  so  absolutely  lifelike  that  Annie  was 
startled,  and  even  awestricken  ; for,  in  spite  of  her 
husband’s  opinion,  she  could  not  satisfy  herself  whether 
it  was  indeed  a living  creature  or  a piece  of  wondrous 
mechanism. 

u Is  it  alive  ? ” she  repeated,  more  earnestly  than 
before. 

u Judge  for  yourself,”  said  Owen  Warland,  who  stood 
gazing  in  her  face  with  fixed  attention. 

The  butterfly  now  flung  itself  upon  the  air,  fluttered 
round  Annie’s  head,  and  soared  into  a distant  region  of 
the  parlor,  still  making  itself  perceptible  to  sight  by 
the  starry  gleam  in  which  the  motion  of  its  wings  en- 
veloped it.  The  infant  on  the  floor  followed  its  course 
with  his  sagacious  little  eyes.  After  flying  about  the 
room,  it  returned  in  a spiral  curve  and  settled  again 
on  Annie’s  finger. 

“ But  is  it  alive  ? ” exclaimed  she  again  ; and  the 
finger  on  which  the  gorgeous  mystery  had  alighted 
was  so  tremulous  that  the  butterfly  was  forced  to  balance 
himself  with  his  wings.  “ Tell  me  if  it  be  alive,  or 
whether  you  created  it.” 

“ Wherefore  ask  who  created  it,  so  it  be  beautiful  ? ” 
replied  Owen  Warland.  “ Alive  ? Yes,  Annie  ; it  may 
well  be  said  to  possess  life,  for  it  has  absorbed  my  own 
being  into  itself ; and  in  the  secret  of  that  butterfly, 
and  in  its  beauty,  — which  is  not  merely  outward,  but 
deep  as  its  whole  system,  — is  represented  the  intellect, 
the  imagination,  the  sensibility,  the  soul  of  an  Artist 
of  the  Beautiful ! Yes  ; I created  it.  But  ” — and  here 
his  countenance  somewhat  changed  — “ this  but'erfly 


THE  AR1 1ST  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


269 


is  not  now  to  me  what  it  was  when  I beheld  it  afar  off 
in  the  daydreams  of  my  youth.” 

“ Be  it  what  it  may,  it  is  a pretty  plaything,”  said  the 
blacksmith,  grinning  with  childlike  delight.  “ I wonder 
whether  it  would  condescend  to  alight  on  such  a great 
clumsy  finger  as  mine  ? Hold  it  hither,  Annie.” 

By  the  artist’s  direction,  Annie  touched  her  finger’s 
tip  to  that  of  her  husband  ; and,  after  a momentary  de- 
lay, the  butterfly  fluttered  from  one  to  the  other.  It 
preluded  a second  flight  by  a similar,  yet  not  precisely 
the  same,  waving  of  wings  as  in  the  first  experiment ; 
then,  ascending  from  the  blacksmith’s  stalwart  finger, 
it  rose  in  a gradually  enlarging  curve  to  the  ceiling, 
made  one  wide  sweep  around  the  room,  and  returned 
with  an  undulating  movement  to  the  point  whence  it 
had  started. 

w Well,  that  does  beat  all  nature  ! ” cried  Robert 
Danforthp  bestowing  the  heartiest  praise  that  he  could 
find  expression  for;  and,  indeed,  had  he  paused  there, 
a man  of  finer  words  and  nicer  perception  could  not 
easily  have  said  more.  u That  goes  beyond  me,  I con- 
fess. But  what  then  ? There  is  more  real  use  in  one 
downright  blow  of  my  sledge  hammer  than  in  the  whole 
five  years’  labor  that  our  friend  Owen  has  wasted  on 
this  butterfly.” 

Here  the  child  clapped  his  hands  and  made  a great 
babble  of  indistinct  utterance,  apparently  demanding 
that  the  butterfly  should  be  given  him  for  a plaything. 

Owen  Warland,  meanwhile,  glanced  sidelong  at  An- 
nie, to  discover  whether  she  sympathized  in  her  hus- 
band’s estimate  of  the  comparative  value  of  the  beauti- 
ful and  the  practical.  There  was,  amid  all  her  kindness 


270 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


towards  himself,  amid  all  the  wonder  and  admiration 
with  which  she  contemplated  the  marvellous  work  of  his 
hands  and  incarnation  of  his  idea,  a secret  scorn  — too 
secret,  perhaps,  for  her  own  consciousness,  and  per- 
ceptible only  to  such  intuitive  discernment  as  that  of 
the  artist.  But  Owen,  in  the  latter  stages  of  his  pursuit, 
had  risen  out  of  the  region  in  which  such  a discovery 
might  have  been  torture.  He  knew  that  the  world,  and 
Annie  as  the  representative  of  the  world,  whatever 
praise  might  be  bestowed,  could  never  say  the  fitting 
word  nor  feel  the  fitting  sentiment  which  should  be  the 
perfect  recompense  of  an  artist  who,  symbolizing  a 
lofty  moral  by  a material  trifle,  — converting  what  was 
earthly  to  spiritual  gold,  — had  won  the  beautiful  into 
his  handiwork.  Not  at  this  latest  moment  was  he  to 
learn  that  the  reward  of  all  high  performance  must  be 
sought  within  itself,  or  sought  in  vain.  There  was, 
however,  a view  of  the  matter  which  Annie  and  her 
husband,  and  even  Peter  Hovenden,  might  fully  have 
understood,  and  which  would  have  satisfied  them  that 
the  toil  of  years  had  here  been  worthily  bestowed. 
Owen  Warland  might  have  told  them  that  this  butter- 
fly, this  plaything,  this  bridal  gift  of  a poor  watchmaker 
to  a blacksmith’s  wife,  was,  in  truth,  a gem  of  art  that 
a monarch  would  have  purchased  with  honors  and 
abundant  wealth,  and  have  treasured  it  among  the  jew- 
els of  his  kingdom  as  the  most  unique  and  wondrous 
of  them  all.  But  the  artist  smiled  and  kept  the  secret 
to  himself. 

“ Father,”  said  Annie,  thinking  that  a word  of  praise 
from  the  old  watchmaker  might  gratify  his  former  ap- 
prentice, u do  come  and  admire  this  pretty  butterfly.” 


THE  ARTIST  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


271 


“ Let  us  see,”  said  Peter  Hovenden,  rising  from  his 
chair,  with  a sneer  upon  his  face  that  always  made  peo- 
ple doubt,  as  he  himself  did,  in  every  thing  but  a ma- 
terial existence.  “ Here  is  my  finger  for  it  to  alight 
upon.  I shall  understand  it  better  when  once  I have 
touched  it.” 

But,  to  the  increased  astonishment  of  Annie,  when 
the  tip  of  her  father’s  finger  was  pressed  against  that  of 
her  husband,  on  which  the  butterfly  still  rested,  the  in- 
sect drooped  its  wings  and  seemed  on  the  point  of  fall- 
ing to  the  floor.  Even  the  bright  spots  of  gold  upon  its 
wings  and  body,  unless  her  eyes  deceived  her,  grew 
dim,  and  the  glowing  purple  took  a dusky  hue,  and  the 
starry  lustre  that  gleamed  around  the  blacksmith’s  hand 
became  faint  and  vanished. 

u It  is  dying ! it  is  dying ! ” cried  Annie,  in  alarm. 

“ It  has  been  delicately  wrought,”  said  the  artist, 
calmly.  u As  I told  you,  it  has  imbibed  a spiritual  es- 
sence — call  it  magnetism,  or  what  you  will.  In  an 
atmosphere  of  doubt  and  mockery  its  exquisite  suscepti- 
bility suffers  torture,  as  does  the  soul  of  him  who  in- 
stilled his  own  life  into  it.  It  has  already  lost  its 
beauty ; in  a few  moments  more  its  jnechanism  would 
be  irreparably  injured.” 

u Take  away  your  hand,  father  ! ” entreated  Annie, 
turning  pale.  “ Here  is  my  child  ; let  it  rest  on  his  in- 
nocent hand.  There,  perhaps,  its  life  will  revive  and 
its  colors  grow  brighter  than  ever.” 

Her  father,  with  an  acrid  smile,  withdrew  his  finger 
The  butterfly  then  appeared  to  recover  the  power  01 
voluntary  motion,  while  its  hues  assumed  much  of 
their  original  lustre,  and  the  gleam  of  starlight,  which 


272 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


was  its  most  ethereal  attribute,  again  formed  a halo 
round  about  it.  At  first,  when  transferred  from  "Robert 
Danforth’s  hand  to  the  small  finger  of  the  child,  this 
radiance  grew  so  powerful  that  it  positively  threw  the 
little  fellow’s  shadow  back  against  the  wall.  He,  mean- 
while, extended  his  plump  hand  as  he  had  seen  his 
father  and  mother  do,  and  watched  the  waving  of  the 
insect’s  wings  with  infantine  delight.  Nevertheless, 
there  was  a certain  odd  expression  of  sagacity  that 
made  Owen  Warland  feel  as  if  here  were  old  Peter 
Hovenden,  partially,  and  but  partially,  redeemed  from 
his  hard  scepticism  into  childish  faith. 

u How  wise  the  little  monkey  looks  1 ” whispered  Rob- 
ert Danforth  to  his  wife. 

“ I never  saw  such  a look  on  a child’s  face,”  an- 
swered Annie,  admiring  her  own  infant,  and  with  good 
reason,  far  more  than  the  artistic  butterfly.  “ The  c/ar- 
ling  knows  more  of  the  mystery  than  we  do.” 

As  if  the  butterfly,  like  the  artist,  were  conscious  of 
something  not  entirely  congenial  in  the  child’s  nature, 
it  alternately  sparkled  and  grew  dim.  At  length  it 
arose  from  the  small  hand  of  the  infant  with  an  airy  mo- 
tion that  seemed  to  bear  it  upward  without  an  effort, 
as  if  the  ethereal  instincts  with  which  its  master’s  spirit 
had  endowed  it  impelled  this  fair  vision  involuntarily 
to  a higher  sphere.  Ha^  there  been  no  obstruction, 
it  might  have  soared  into  the  sky  and  grown  immortal 
But  its  lustre  gleamed  upon  the  ceiling  ; the  exquisite 
texture  of  its  wings  brushed  against  that  earthly  me- 
dium ; and  a sparkle  or  two,  as  of  stardust,  floated 
downward  and  lay  glimmering  on  the  carpet.  Then 
the  butterfly  came  fluttering  down,  and,  instead  of  re- 


a virtuoso’s  collection. 


275 


some  momentous  question  to  ask,  might  he  but  hope  for 
a reply.  As  it  was  evident,  however,  that  I could  have 
nothing  to  do  with  his  private  affairs,  I passed  through 
an  open  doorway,  which  admitted  me  into  the  extensive 
hall  of  the  museum. 

Directly  in  front  of  the  portal  was  the  bronze  statue 
of  a youth  with  winged  feet.  He  was  represented  in 
the  act  of  flitting  away  from  earth,  yet  wore  such  a look 
of  earnest  invitation  that  it  impressed  me  like  a sum- 
mons to  enter  the  hall. 

“ It  is  the  original  statue  of  Opportunity,  by  the  an- 
cient sculptor  Lysippus,”  said  a gentleman  who  now 
approached  me.  “ I place  it  at  the  entrance  of  my 
museum,  because  it  is  not  at  all  times  that  one  can  gain 
admittance  to  such  a collection.” 

The  speaker  was  a middle-aged  person,  of  whom  it 
was  not  easy  to  determine  whether  he  had  spent  his  life 
as  a scholar  or  as  a man  of  action ; in  truth,  all  out- 
ward and  obvious  peculiarities  had  been  worn  away  by 
an  extensive  and  promiscuous  intercourse  with  the 
world.  There  was  no  mark  about  him  of  profession, 
individual  habits,  or  scarcely  of  country ; although  his 
dark  complexion  and  high  features  made  me  conjecture 
that  he  was  a native  of  some  southern  clime  of  Europe. 
At  all  events,  he  was  evidently  the  virtuoso  in  person. 

“ With  your  permission,”  said  he,  “ as  we  have  no 
descriptive  catalogue,  I will  accompany  you  through 
the  museum  and  point  out  whatever  may  be  most 
worthy  of  attention.  In  the  first  place,  here  is  a choice 
collection  of  stuffed  animals.” 

Nearest  the  door  stood  the  outward  semblance  of  a 
wolf,  exquisitely  prepared,  it  is  true,  and  showing  a 


276 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


very  wolfish  fierceness  in  the  large  glass  eyes  which 
were  inserted  into  its  wild  and  crafty  head.  Still  it  was 
merely  the  skin  of  a wolf,  with  nothing  to  distinguish  it 
from  other  individuals  of  that  unlovely  breed. 

44  How  does  this  animal  deserve  a place  in  your  col- 
lection ? ” inquired  I. 

“It  is  the  wolf  that  devoured  Little  Red  Riding 
Hood,”  answered  the  virtuoso  ; “ and  by  his  side  — 
with  a milder  and  more  matronly  look,  as  you  per- 
ceive — stands  the  she  wolf  that  suckled  Romulus  and 
Remus.” 

“ Ah,  indeed  ! ” exclaimed  I.  “ And  what  lovely 
Jamb  is  this  with  the  snow-white  fleece,  which  seems  to 
be  of  as  delicate  a texture  as  innocence  itself?  ” 

“ Methinks  you  have  but  carelessly  read  Spenser,” 
replied  my  guide,  “ or  you  would  at  once  recognize  the 
4 milk-white  lamb  ’ which  Una  led.  But  I set  no  great 
value  upon  the  lamb.  The  next  specimen  is  better 
worth  our  notice.” 

44  What ! ” cried  I,  44  this  strange  animal,  with  the 
black  head  of  an  ox  upon  the  body  of  a white  horse  ? 
Were  it  possible  to  suppose  it,  I should  say  that  this 
was  Alexander’s  steed  Bucephalus.” 

44  The  same,”  said  the  virtuoso.  44  And  can  you 
likewise  give  a name  to  the  famous  charger  that  stands 
beside  him  ? ” 

Next  to  the  renowned  Bucephalus  stood  the  mere 
skeleton  of  a horse,  with  the  white  bones  peeping 
through  his  ill-conditioned  hide  ; but,  if  my  heart  had 
not  warmed  towards  that  pitiful  anatomy,  I might  as 
well  have  quitted  the  museum  at  once.  Its  rarities  had 
not  been  collected  with  pain  and  toil  from  the  lour 


THE  ARTIST  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


273 


turning  to  the  infant,  was  apparently  attracted  towards 
the  artist’s  hand. 

“ Not  so  ! not  so  ! ” murmured  Owen  Warland,  as  if 
his  handiwork  could  have  understood  him.  u Thou 
hast  gone  forth  out  of  thy  master’s  heart.  There  is  no 
return  for  thee.” 

With  a wavering  movement,  and  emitting  a tremu- 
lous radiance,  the  butterfly  struggled,  as  it  were,  to- 
wards the  infant,  and  was  about  to  alight  upon  his  finger ; 
but,  while  it  still  hovered  in  the  air,  the  little  child  of 
strength,  with  his  grandsire’s  sharp  and  shrewd  expres- 
sion in  his  face,  made  a snatch  at  the  marvellous  insect 
and  compressed  it  in  his  hand.  Annie  screamed.  Old 
Peter  Hovenden  burst  into  a cold  and  scornful  laugh. 
The  blacksmith,  by  main  force,  unclosed  the  infant’s 
hand,  and  found  within  the  palm  a small  heap  of  glit- 
tering fragments,  whence  the  mystery  of  beauty  had 
fled  forever.  And  as  for  Owen  Warland,  he  looked 
placidly  at  what  seemed  the  ruin  of  his  life’s  labor,  and 
which  was  yet  no  ruin.  He  had  caught  a far  other 
butterfly  than  this.  When  the  artist  rose  high  enough 
to  achieve  the  beautiful,  the  symbol  by  which  he  made 
it  perceptible  to  mortal  senses  became  of  little  value  in 
his  eyes  while  his  spirit  possessed  itself  in  the  enjoy- 
ment of  the  reality. 

VOL.  II.  18 


A VIRTUOSO'S  COLLECTION. 


The  other  day,  having  a leisure  hour  at  my  disposal, 
I stepped  into  a new  museum,  to  which  my  notice  was 
casually  drawn  by  a small  and  unobtrusive  sign : “ To 
BE  SEEN  HERE,  A VIRTUOSO’S  COLLECTION.”  Such  Was 
the  simple  yet  not  altogether  unpromising  announce- 
ment that  turned  my  steps  aside  for  a little  while  from 
the  sunny  sidewalk  of  our  principal  thoroughfare. 
Mounting  a sombre  staircase,  I pushed  open  a door  at 
its  summit,  and  found  myself  in  the  presence  of  a per- 
son, who  mentioned  the  moderate  sum  that  would  enti- 
tle me  to  admittance. 

“ Three  shillings,  Massachusetts  tenor,”  said  he. 
M No,  I mean  half  a dollar,  as  you  reckon  in  these  days.” 

While  searching  my  pocket  for  the  coin  I glanced  at 
the  doorkeeper,  the  marked  character  and  individuality 
of  whose  aspect  encouraged  me  to  expect  something 
not  quite  in  the  ordinary  way.  He  wore  an  old-fash- 
ioned greatcoat,  much  faded,  within  which  his  meagre 
person  was  so  completely  enveloped  that  the  rest  of  his 
attire  was  undistinguishable.  But  his  visage  was  remark- 
ably wind-flushed,  sunburnt,  and  weather-worn,  and  had 
a most  unquiet,  nervous,  and  apprehensive  expression. 
It  seemed  as  if  this  man  had  some  all-important  object 
in  view,  some  point  of  deepest  interest  to  be  decided, 

(274) 


a virtuoso’s  collection. 


279 


drawn  his  last  cork,  and  has  been  forced  to  c say  die 1 
at  last.  This  other  raven,  hardly  less  curious,  is  that 
in  which  the  soul  of  King  George  I.  revisited  his  lady 
love,  the  Duchess  of  Kendall.” 

My  guide  next  pointed  out  Minerva’s  owl  and  the 
vulture  that  preyed  upon  the  liver  of  Prometheus. 
There  was  likewise  the  sacred  ibis  of  Egypt,  and  one 
of  the  Stymphalides  which  Hercules  shot  in  his  sixth 
labor.  Shelley’s  skylark,  Bryant’s  water  fowl,  and  a 
pigeon  from  the  belfry  of  the  Old  South  Church,  pre- 
served by  N.  P.  Willis,  were  placed  on  the  same  perch. 
I could  not  but  shudder  on  beholding  Coleridge’s  alba- 
tross, transfixed  with  the  Ancient  Mariner’s  crossbow 
shaft.  Beside  this  bird  of  awful  poesy  stood  a gray 
goose  of  very  ordinary  aspect. 

“ Stuffed  goose  is  no  such  rarity,”  observed  I.  “ Why 
do  you  preserve  such  a specimen  in  your  museum  ? ” 

“ It  is  one  of  the  flock  whose  cackling  saved  the 
Roman  Capitol,”  answered  the  virtuoso.  “ Many 
geese  have  cackled  and  hissed  both  before  and  since  ; 
but  none,  like  those,  have  clamored  themselves  into  im- 
mortality.” 

There  seemed  to  be  little  else  that  demanded  notice 
in  this  department  of  the  museum,  unless  we  except 
Robinson  Crusoe’s  parrot,  a live  phoenix,  a footless  bird 
of  paradise,  and  a splendid  peacock,  supposed  to  be 
the  same  that  once  contained  the  soul  of  Pythagoras. 
I therefore  passed  to  the  next  alcove,  the  shelves  of 
which  were  covered  with  a miscellaneous  collection  of 
curiosities  such  as  are  usually  found  in  similar  estab- 
lishments. One  of  the  first  things  that  took  my  eye 
was  a strange-looking  cap,  woven  of  some  substance 
that  appeared  to  be  neither  woollen,  cotton,  nor  linen. 


280 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


44  Is  this  a magician’s  cap  ? ” I asked. 

44  No,”  replied  the  virtuoso  ; 44  it  is  merely  Dr.  Frank- 
lin’s cap  of  asbestos.  But  here  is  one  which,  perhaps, 
may  suit  you  better.  It  is  the  wishing  cap  of  Fortunatus. 
Will  you  try  it  on  ? ” 

44  By  no  means,”  answered  I,  putting  it  aside  with  my 
hand.  44  The  day  of  wild  wishes  is  past  with  me.  I 
desire  nothing  that  may  not  come  in  the  ordinary  course 
of  Providence.” 

44  Then  probably,”  returned  the  virtuoso,  44  you  will 
not  be  tempted  to  rub  this  lamp  r ” 

While  speaking,  he  took  from  the  shelf  an  antique 
brass  lamp,  curiously  wrought  with  embossed  figures, 
but  so  covered  with  verdigris  that  the  sculpture  was  al- 
most eaten  away. 

44  It  is  a thousand  years,”  said  he,  44  since  the  genius 
of  this  lamp  constructed  Aladdin’s  palace  in  a single 
night.  But  he  still  retains  his  power  ; and  the  man 
who  rubs  Aladdin’s  lamp  has  but  to  desire  either  a 
palace  or  a cottage.” 

44  I might  desire  a cottage,”  replied  I ; 44  but  I would 
have  it  founded  on  sure  and  stable  truth,  not  on  dreams 
and  fantasies.  I have  learned  to  look  for  the  real  and 
the  true.” 

My  guide  next  showed  me  Prospero’s  magic  wand, 
broken  into  three  fragments  by  the  hand  of  its  mighty 
master.  On  the  same  shelf  lay  the  gold  ring  of  ancient 
Gyges,  which  enabled  the  wearer  to  walk  invisible. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  alcove  was  a tall  looking  glass 
in  a frame  of  ebony,  but  veiled  with  a curtain  of  purple 
silk,  through  the  rents  of  which  the  gleam  of  the  mirror 
was  perceptible. 


a virtuoso’s  collection. 


277 


quarters  of  the  earth,  and  from  the  depths  of  the  sea, 
and  from  the  palaces  and  sepulchres  of  ages,  for  those 
who  could  mistake  this  illustrious  steed. 

“ It  is  Bosinante  ! ” exclaimed  I,  with  enthusiasm. 

And  so  it  proved.  My  admiration  for  the  noble  and 
gallant  horse  caused  me  to  glance  with  less  interest  at 
the  other  animals,  although  many  of  them  might  have 
deserved  the  notice  of  Cuvier  himself.  There  was  the 
donkey  which  Peter  Bell  cudgelled  so  soundly,  and  a 
brother  of  the  same  species  who  had  suffered  a similar 
infliction  from  the  ancient  prophet  Balaam.  Some 
doubts  were  entertained,  however,  as  to  the  authenticity 
of  the  latter  beast.  My  guide  pointed  out  the  venera- 
ble Argus,  that  faithful  dog  of  Ulysses,  and  also  another 
dog,  (for  so  the  skin  bespoke  it,)  which,  though  imper- 
fectly preserved,  seemed  once  to  have  had  three  heads. 
It  was  Cerberus.  I was  considerably  amused  at  detect- 
ing in  an  obscure  corner  the  fox  that  became  so  famous 
by  the  loss  of  his  tail.  There  were  several  stuffed  cats, 
which,  as  a dear  lover  of  that  comfortable  beast,  attract- 
ed my  affectionate  re^irds.  One  was  Dr.  Johnson’s 
cat  Hodge  ; and  in  the  same  row  stood  the  favorite  cats 
of  Mahomet,  Gray,  and  Walter  Scott,  together  with 
Puss  in  Boots,  and  a cat  of  very  noble  aspect  who 
had  once  been  a deity  of  ancient  Egypt.  Byron’s  tame 
bear  came  next.  I must  not  forget  to  mention  the 
Erymanthean  boar,  the  skin  of  St.  George’s  dragon,  and 
that  of  the  serpent  Python  ; and  another  skin  with  beau- 
tifully variegated  hues,  supposed  to  have  been  the  gar- 
ment of  the  “ spirited  sly  snake  ” which  tempted  Eve. 
Against  the  walls  were  suspended  the  horns  of  the  stag 
that  Shakspeare  shot ; and  on  the  floor  lay  the  ponderous 


278 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


shell  of  the  tortoise  which  fell  upon  the  nead  of 
iEschylus.  In  one  row,  as  natural  as  life,  stood  the 
sacred  bull  Apis,  the  “ cow  with  the  crumpled  horn,” 
and  a very  wild-looking  young  heifer,  which  I guessed 
to  be  the  cow  that  jumped  over  the  moon.  She  was 
probably  killed  by  the  rapidity  of  her  descent.  As  I 
turned  away,  my  eyes  fell  upon  an  indescribable  mon- 
ster, which  proved  to  be  a griffin. 

“ I look  in  vain,”  observed  I,  “ for  the  skin  of  an 
animal  which  might  well  deserve  the  closest  study  of  a 
naturalist  — the  winged  horse,  Pegasus.” 

“ He  is  not  yet  dead,”  replied  the  virtuoso  ; “ but  ho 
is  so  hard  ridden  by  many  young  gentlemen  of  the  day 
that  I hope  soon  to  add  his  skin  and  skeleton  to  my 
collection.” 

We  now  passed  to  the  next  alcove  of  the  hall,  in 
which  was  a multitude  of  stuffed  birds.  They  were 
very  prettily  arranged,  some  upon  the  branches  of  trees, 
others  brooding  upon  nests,  and  others  suspended  by 
wires  so  artificially  that  they  seemed  in  the  very  act  of 
flight.  Among  them  was  a white  dove,  with  a withered 
branch  of  olive  leaves  in  her  mouth. 

u Can  this  be  the  very  dove,”  inquired  I,  u that 
brought  the  message  of  peace  and  hope  to  the  tempest- 
beaten  passengers  of  the  ark  ? ” 

“ Even  so,”  said  my  companion. 

“ And  this  raven,  I suppose,”  continued  I,  “ is  the 
same  that  fed  Elijah  in  the  wilderness.” 

“ The  raven  ? No,”  said  the  virtuoso  ; “ it  is  a bird  of 
modern  date.  He  belonged  to  one  Barnaby  Rudge 
and  many  people  fancied  that  the  devil  himself  w^0 
guised  under  his  sable  plumage.  But  poor  Gr: 


a virtuoso’s  collection. 


281 


u This  is  Cornelius  Agrippa’s  magic  glass,”  observed 
rhe  virtuoso.  “ Draw  aside  the  curtain,  and  picture 
any  human  form  within  your  mind,  and  it  will  be  re- 
flected in  the  mirror.” 

“ It  is  enough  if  I can  picture  it  within  my  mind,” 
answered  I.  “ Why  should  I wish  it  to  be  repeated  in 
the  mirror  ? But,  indeed,  these  works  of  magic  have 
grown  wearisome  to  me.  There  are  so  many  greater 
wonders  in  the  world,  to  those  who  keep  their  eyes 
open  and  their  sight  undimmed  by  custom,  that  all  the 
delusions  of  the  old  sorcerers  seem  flat  and  stale.  Un- 
less you  can  show  me  something  really  curious,  I care 
not  to  look  farther  into  your  museum.” 

u Ah,  well,  then,”  said  the  virtuoso,  composedly, 
46  perhaps  you  may  deem  some  of  my  antiquarian  rari- 
ties deserving  of  a glance.” 

He  pointed  out  the  iron  mask,  now  corroded  with 
rust ; and  my  heart  grew  sick  at  the  sight  of  this  dread- 
ful relic,  which  had  shut  out  a human  being  from  sym- 
pathy with  his  race.  There  was  nothing  half  so  terri- 
ble in  the  axe  that  beheaded  King  Charles,  nor  in  the 
dagger  that  slew  Henry  of  Navarre,  nor  in  the  arrow 
that  pierced  the  heart  of  William  Rufus  — all  of  which 
were  shown  to  me.  Many  of  the  articles  derived  their 
interest,  such  as  it  was,  from  having  been  formerly  in 
the  possession  of  royalty.  For  instance,  here  was 
Charlemagne’s  sheepskin  cloak,  the  flowing  wig  of 
Louis  Quatorze,  the  spinning  wheel  of  Sardanapalus, 
and  King  Stephen’s  famous  breeches  which  cost  him 
but  a crown.  The  heart  of  the  Bloody  Mary,  with  the 
word  “ Calais  ” worn  into  its  diseased  substance,  was 
preserved  in  a bottle  of  spirits  ; and  near  it  lay  the 


282 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


golden  case  in  which  the  queen  of  Gustavus  Adolphus 
treasured  up  that  hero’s  heart.  Among  these  relics 
and  heirlooms  of  kings  I must  not  forget  the  long, 
hairy  ears  of  Midas,  and  a piece  of  bread  which  had 
been  changed  to  gold  by  the  touch  of  that  unlucky 
monarch.  And  as  Grecian  Helen  was  a queen,  it  may 
here  be  mentioned  that  I was  permitted  to  take  into  my 
hand  a lock  of  her  golden  hair  and  the  bowl  which  a 
sculptor  modelled  from  the  curve  of  her  perfect  breast. 
Here,  likewise,  was  the  robe  that  smothered  Agamem- 
non, Nero’s  fiddle,  the  Czar  Peter’s  brandy  bottle,  the 
crown  of  Semiramis,  and  Canute’s  sceptre  which  he 
extended  over  the  sea.  That  my  own  land  may  not 
deem  itself  neglected,  let  me  add  that  I was  favored 
with  a sight  of  the  skull  of  King  Philip,  the  famous  In- 
dian chief,  whose  head  the  Puritans  smote  off  and  ex- 
hibited upon  a pole. 

u Show  me  something  else,”  said  I to  the  virtuoso. 
44  Kings  are  in  such  an  artificial  position  that  people  in 
the  ordinary  walks  of  life  cannot  feel  an  interest  in 
their  relics.  If  you  could  show  me  the  straw  hat  of 
sweet  little  Nell,  I would  far  rather  see  it  than  a king’s 
golden  crown.” 

44  There  it  is,”  said  my  guide,  pointing  carelessly 
with  his  staff  to  the  straw  hat  in  question.  44  But,  in- 
deed, you  are  hard  to  please.  Here  are  the  seven-league 
boots.  Will  you  try  them  on  ? ” 

44  Our  modern  railroads  have  superseded  their  use,” 
answered  I ; 44  and  as  to  these  cowhide  boots,  I could 
show  you  quite  as  curious  a pair  at  the  Transcendental 
community  in  Roxbury.” 

We  next  examined  a collection  of  swords  and  other 


a virtuoso’s  collection. 


283 


weapons,  belonging  to  different  epochs,  but  thrown  to- 
gether without  much  attempt  at  arrangement.  Here 
wa<»  Arthur’s  sword  Excalibar,  and  that  of  the  Cid 
Campeador,  and  the  sword  of  Brutus  rusted  with  Cae- 
sar’s blood  and  his  own,  and  the  sword  of  Joan  of  Arc, 
and  that  of  Horatius,  and  that  with  which  Virginius 
slew  his  daughter,  and  the  one  which  Dionysius  sus- 
pended over  the  head  of  Damocles.  Here  also  was  Ar- 
ria’s  sword,  which  she  plunged  into  her  own  breast,  in 
order  to  taste  of  death  before  her  husband.  The  crook- 
ed blade  of  Saladin’s  cimeter  next  attracted  my  notice. 
I know  not  by  what  chance,  but  so  it  happened,  that  the 
sword  of  one  of  our  own  militia  generals  was  suspended 
between  Don  Quixote’s  lance  and  the  brown  blade  of 
Hudibras.  My  heart  throbbed  high  at  the  sight  of  the 
helmet  of  Miltiades  and  the  spear  that  was  broken  in 
the  breast  of  Epaminondas.  I recognized  the  shield 
of  Achilles  by  its  resemblance  to  the  admirable  cast  in 
the  possession  of  Professor  Felton.  Nothing  in  this 
apartment  interested  me  more  than  Major  Pitcairn’s 
pistol,  the  discharge  of  which,  at  Lexington,  began  the 
war  of  the  revolution,  and  was  reverberated  in  thunder 
around  the  land  for  seven  long  years.  The  bow  of 
Ulysses,  though  unstrung  for  ages,  was  placed  against 
the  wall,  together  with  a sheaf  of  Robin  Hood’s  arrows 
and  the  rifle  of  Daniel  Boone. 

“ Enough  of  weapons,”  said  I,  at  length  ; u although 
I would  gladly  have  seen  the  sacred  shield  which  fell 
from  heaven  in  the  time  of  Numa.  And  surely  you 
should  obtain  the  sword  which  Washington  unsheathed 
at  Cambridge.  But  the  collection  does  you  much  cred 
it.  Let  us  pass  on.” 


284 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


Ill  the  next  alcove  we  saw  the  golden  thigh  of  Pythag- 
oras, which  had  so  divine  a meaning ; and,  by  one  of 
the  queer  analogies  to  which  the  virtuoso  seemed  to  be 
addicted,  this  ancient  emblem  lay  on  the  same  shelf 
with  Peter  Stuyvesant’s  wooden  leg,  that  was  fabled  to 
be  of  silver.  Here  was  a remnant  of  the  Golden 
Fleece,  and  a sprig  of  yellow  leaves  that  resembled 
the  foliage  of  a frostbitten  elm,  but  was  duly  authenti- 
cated as  a portion  of  the  golden  branch  by  which 
iEneas  gained  admittance  to  the  realm  of  Pluto.  Ata- 
lanta’s  golden  apple  and  one  of  the  apples  of  discord 
were  wrapped  in  the  napkin  of  gold  which  Rampsinitus 
brought  from  Hades  ; and  the  whole  were  deposited  in 
the  golden  vase  of  Bias,  with  its  inscription  : “ To  the 
wisest.” 

“ And  how  did  you  obtain  this  vase  ? ” said  I to  the 
virtuoso. 

“ It  was  given  me  long  ago,”  replied  he,  with  a scorn- 
ful expression  in  his  eye,  “ because  I had  learned  to 
despise  all  things.” 

It  had  not  escaped  me  that,  though  the  virtuoso  was 
evidently  a man  of  high  cultivation,  yet  he  seemed  to 
lack  sympathy  with  the  spiritual,  the  sublime,  and  the 
tender.  Apart  from  the  whim  that  had  led  him  to  de- 
vote so  much  time,  pains,  and  expense  to  the  collection 
of  this  museum,  he  impressed  me  as  one  of  the  hardest 
&nd  coldest  men  of  the  world  whom  I had  ever  met. 

“ To  despise  all  things  ! ” repeated  I.  “ This,  at 
best,  is  the  wisdom  of  the  understanding.  It  is  the 
creed  of  a man  whose  soul,  whose  better  and  divinei 
part,  has  never  been  awakened,  or  has  died  out  of 
him.” 


a virtuoso’s  collection. 


283 


“ I did  not  think  that  you  were  still  so  young,”  said 
the  virtuoso.  “ Should  you  live  to  my  years,  you  will 
acknowledge  that  the  vase  of  Bias  was  not  ill  bestowed.” 
Without  further  discussion  of  the  point,  he  directed 
my  attention  to  other  curiosities.  I examined  Cinder- 
ella’s little  glass  slipper,  and  compared  it  with  one  of 
Diana’s  sandals,  and  with  Fanny  Elssler’s  shoe,  which 
bore  testimony  to  the  muscular  character  of  her  illus- 
trious foot.  On  the  same  shelf  were  Thomas  the 
Rhymer’s  green  velvet  shoes,  and  the  brazen  shoe  of 
Empedocles  which  was  thrown  out  of  Mount  AStna. 
Anacreon’snirinking  cup  was  placed  in  apt  juxtaposi- 
tion with  one  of  Tom  Moore’s  wine  glasses  and  Circe’s 
magic  bowl.  These  were  symbols  of  luxury  and  riot ; 
but  near  them  stood  the  cup  whence  Socrates  drank 
his  hemlock,  and  that  which  Sir  Philip  Sidney  put 
from  his  death-parched  lips  to  bestow  the  draught  upon 
a dying  soldier.  Next  appeared  a cluster  of  tobacco 
pipes,  consisting  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh’s,  the  earliest 
on  record,  Dr.  Parr’s,  Charles  Lamb’s,  and  the  first 
calumet  of  peace  which  was  ever  smoked  between  a 
European  and  an  Indian.  Among  other  musical  in- 
struments, I noticed  the  lyre  of  Orpheus  and  those  of 
Homer  and  Sappho,  Dr.  Franklin’s  famous  whistle,  the 
trumpet  of  Anthony  Van  Corlear,  and  the  flute  which 
Goldsmith  played  upon  in  his  rambles  through  the 
French  provinces.  The  staff  of  Peter  the  Hermit 
stood  in  a corner  with  that  of  good  old  Bishop  Jewel, 
and  one  of  ivory,  which  had  belonged  to  Papirius,  the 
Roman  senator.  The  ponderous  club  of  Hercules  was 
close  at  hand.  The  virtuoso  showed  me  the  chisel  of 
Phidias,  Claude’s  palette,  and  the  brush  of  Apelles, 


286 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


observing  that  he  intended  to  bestow  the  former  either  on 
Greenough,  Crawford,  or  Powers,  and  the  two  latter 
upon  Washington  Allston.  There  was  a small  vase  of 
oracular  gas  from  Delphos,  which  I trust  will  be  sub- 
mitted to  the  scientific  analysis  of  Professor  Silliman. 
I was  deeply  moved  on  beholding  a vial  of  the  tears 
into  which  Niobe  was  dissolved  ; nor  less  so  on  learn- 
ing that  a shapeless  fragment  of  salt  was  a relic  of 
that  victim  of  despondency  and  sinful  regrets  — Lot’s 
wife.  My  companion  appeared  to  set  great  value  upon 
some  Egyptian  darkness  in  a blacking  jug.  Several 
of  the  shelves  were  covered  by  a collection  of  coins, 
among  which,  however,  I remember  none  but  the 
Splendid  Shilling,  celebrated  by  Phillips,  and  a dollar’s 
worth  of  the  iron  money  of  Lycurgus,  weighing  about 
fifty  pounds. 

Walking  carelessly  onward,  I had  nearly  fallen  over 
a huge  bundle,  like  a peddler’s  pack,  done  up  in  sack- 
cloth, and  very  securely  strapped  and  corded. 

“ It  is  Christian’s  burden  of  sin,”  said  the  virtuoso. 

u O,  pray  let  us  open  it ! ” cried  I.  w For  many  a 
year  I have  longed  to  know  its  contents.” 

“ Look  into  your  own  consciousness  and  memory,” 
replied  the  virtuoso.  “ You  will  there  find  a list  of 
whatever  it  contains.” 

As  this  was  an  undeniable  truth,  I threw  a melan- 
choly look  at  the  burden  and  passed  on.  A collection 
of  old  garments,  hanging  on  pegs,  was  worthy  of  some 
attention,  especially  the  shirt  of  Nessus,  Caesar’s  mantle, 
Joseph’s  coat  of  many  colors,  the  Yicar  of  Bray’s  cas- 
sock, Goldsmith’s  peach-bloom  suit,  a pair  of  President 
Jefferson’s  scarlet  breeches,  John  Randolph’s  red  baize 


a virtuoso’s  collection. 


287 


hunting  shirt,  the  drab  smallclothes  of  the  Stout  Gen- 
tleman, and  the  rags  of  the  “ man  all  tattered  and 
torn.”  George  Fox’s  hat  impressed  me  with  deep 
reverence  as  a relic  of  perhaps  the  truest  apostle  that 
has  appeared  on  earth  for  these  eighteen  hundred 
years.  My  eye  was  next  attracted  by  an  old  pair  of 
shears,  which  I should  have  taken  for  a memorial  of 
some  famous  tailor,  only  that  the  virtuoso  pledged  his 
veracity  that  they  were  the  identical  scissors  of  Atropos. 
He  also  showed  me  a broken  hourglass  which  had 
been  thrown  aside  by  Father  Time,  together  with  the 
old  gentleman’s  gray  forelock,  tastefully  braided  into  a 
brooch.  In  the  hourglass  was  the  handful  of  sand,  the 
grains  of  which  had  numbered  the  years  of  the  Cu- 
msean  sibyl.  I think  it  wras  in  this  alcove  that  I saw 
the  inkstand  which  Luther  threw  at  the  devil,  and  the 
ring  which  Essex,  while  under  sentence  of  death,  sent 
to  Queen  Elizabeth.  And  here  was  the  blood-in- 
crusted  pen  of  steel  with  which  Faust  signed  away 
his  salvation. 

The  virtuoso  now  opened  the  door  of  a closet  and 
showed  me  a lamp  burning,  while  three  others  stood 
unlighted  by  its  side.  One  of  the  three  was  the  lamp 
of  Diogenes,  another  that  of  Guy  Fawkes,  and  the  third 
that  which  Hero  set  forth  to  the  midnight  breeze  in  the 
high  tower  of  Abydos. 

“ See ! ” said  the  virtuoso,  blowing  with  all  his 
force  at  the  lighted  lamp. 

The  flame  quivered  and  shrank  away  from  bis 
breath,  but  clung  to  the  wick,  and  resumed  its  brilliancy 
as  soon  as  the  blast  was  exhausted. 

“ It  is  an  undying  lamp  from  the  tomb  of  Charle- 


288 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


magne,”  observed  my  guide.  “ That  flame  was  kin- 
dled a thousand  years  ago.” 

“ How  ridiculous  to  kindle  an  unnatural  light  in 
tombs ! ” exclaimed  I.  “ We  should  seek  to  behold 
the  dead  in  the  light  of  heaven.  But  what  is  the  mean- 
ing of  this  chafing  dish  of  glowing  coals  ? ” 

“ That,”  answered  the  virtuoso,  “ is  the  original  fire 
which  Prometheus  stole  from  heaven.  Look  stead- 
fastly into  it,  and  you  will  discern  another  curiosity.” 

I gazed  into  that  fire,  — which,  symbolically,  was 
the  origin  of  all  that  was  bright  and  glorious  in  the 
soul  of  man,  — and  in  the  midst  of  it,  behold,  a little 
reptile,  sporting  with  evident  enjoyment  of  the  fervid 
heat ! It  was  a salamander. 

- “ What  a sacrilege  ! ” cried  I,  with  inexpressible 
disgust.  “ Can  you  find  no  better  use  for  this  ethereal 
fire  than  to  cherish  a loathsome  reptile  in  it  ? Yet 
there  are  men  who  abuse  the  sacred  fire  of  their  own 
souls  to  as  foul  and  guilty  a purpose.” 

The  virtuoso  made  no  answer  except  by  a dry  laugh 
and  an  assurance  that  the  salamander  was  the  veiy 
same  which  Benvenuto  Cellini  had  seen  in  his  father’s 
household  fire.  He  then  proceeded  to  show  me  other 
rarities  ; for  this  closet  appeared  to  be  the  receptacle 
of  what  he  considered  most  valuable  in  his  collection. 

“ There,”  said  he,  “ is  the  Great  Carbuncle  of  the 
White  Mountains.” 

I gazed  with  no  little  interest  at  this  mighty  gem, 
which  it  had  been  one  of  the  wild  projects  of  my  youth 
to  discover.  Possibly  it  might  have  looked  brighter  to 
me  in  those  days  than  now;  at  all  events,  it  had  not 
such  brilliancy  as  to  detain  me  long  from  the  other 


a virtuoso’s  collection. 


289 


articles  of  the  museum.  The  virtuoso  pointed  out  to 
me  a crystalline  stone  which  hung  by  a gold  chain 
against  the  wall. 

w That  is  the  philosopher’s  stone,”  said  he. 

“ And  have  you  the  elixir  vitae  which  generally 
accompanies  it  ? ” inquired  1. 

u Even  so  ; this  urn  is  filled  with  it,”  he  replied. 
u A draught  would  refresh  you.  Here  is  Hebe’s  cup  ; 
will  you  quaff  a health  from  it  ? ” 

My  heart  thrilled  within  me  at  the  idea  of  such  a 
reviving  draught ; for  methought  I had  great  need  of  it 
after  travelling  so  far  on  the  dusty  road  of  life.  But  I 
know  not  whether  it  were  a peculiar  glance  in  the  vir- 
tuoso’s eye,  or  the  circumstance  that  this  most  precious 
liquid  was  contained  in  an  antique  sepulchral  urn,  that 
made  me  pause.  Then  came  many  a thought  with 
which,  in  the  calmer  and  better  hours  of  life,  I had 
strengthened  myself  to  feel  that  Death  is  the  veiy  friend 
whom,  in  his  due  season,  even  the  happiest  mortal 
should  be  willing  to  embrace. 

“ No ; I desire  not  an  earthly  immortality,”  said  I. 
u Were  man  to  live  longer  on  the  earth,  the  spiritual 
would  die  out  of  him.  The  spark  of  ethereal  fire 
would  be  choked  by  the  material,  the  sensual.  There 
is  a celestial  something  within  us  that  requires,  after  a 
certain  time,  the  atmosphere  of  heaven  to  preserve  it 
from  decay  and  ruin.  I will  have  none  of  this  liquid. 
You  do  well  to  keep  it  in  a sepulchral  urn  ; for  it 
would  produce  death  while  bestowing  the  shadow  of 
life.” 

“ All  this  is  unintelligible  to  me,”  responded  my 
guide,  with  indifference.  “ Life  — earthly  life  — is 
VOL.  II.  19 


290 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


the  only  good.  But  you  refuse  the  draught  ? Well,  it 
is  not  likely  to  be  offered  twice  within  one  man’s  expe- 
rience. Probably  you  have  griefs  which  you  seek  to 
forget  in  death.  I can  enable  you  to  forget  them  in 
life.  Will  you  take  a draught  Of  Lethe  ? ” 

As  he  spoke,  the  virtuoso  took  from  the  shelf  a 
crystal  vase  containing  a sable  liquor,  which  caught  no 
reflected  image  from  the  objects  around. 

“ Not  for  the  world  ! ” exclaimed  I,  shrinking  back 
u 1 can  spare  none  of  my  recollections,  not  even  those 
of  error  or  sorrow.  They  are  all  alike  the  food  of  my 
spirit.  As  well  never  to  have  lived  as  to  lose  them 
now.” 

Without  further  parley  we  passed  to  the  next  alcove, 
the  shelves  of  which  were  burdened  with  ancient  vol- 
umes and  with  those  rolls  of  papyrus  in  which  was 
treasured  up  the  eldest  wisdom  of  the  earth.  Perhaps 
the  most  valuable  work  in  the  collection,  to  a biblio- 
maniac, was  the  Book  of  Hermes.  For  my  part,  how- 
ever, I would  have  given  a higher  price  for  those  six 
of  the  Sibyl’s  books  which  Tarquin  refused  to  pur- 
chase, and  which  the  virtuoso  informed  me  he  had 
himself  found  in  the  cave  of  Trophonius.  Doubtless 
these  old  volumes  contain  prophecies  of  the  fate  of 
Rome,  both  as  respects  the  decline  and  fall  of  her  tem- 
poral empire  and  the  rise  of  her  spiritual  one.  Not 
without  value,  likewise,  was  the  work  of  Anaxagoras 
on  Nature,  hitherto  supposed  to  be  irrecoverably  lost, 
and  the  missing  treatises  of  Longinus,  by  which  modern 
criticism  might  profit,  and  those  books  of  Livy  for 
which  the  classic  student  has  so  long  sorrowed  without 
hope.  Among  these  precious  tomes  I observed  the 


A virtuoso’s  collection. 


291 


original  manuscript  of  the  Koran,  and  also  that  of  the 
Mormon  Bible  in  Joe  Smith’s  authentic  autograph. 
Alexander’s  copy  of  the  Iliad  was  also  there,  enclosed 
in  the  jewelled  casket  of  Darius,  still  fragrant  of  the 
perfumes  which  the  Persian  kept  in  it. 

Opening  an  iron-clasped  volume,  bound  in  black 
leather,  I discovered  it  to  be  Cornelius  Agrippa’s  book 
of  magic  ; and  it  was  rendered  still  more  interesting 
by  the  fact  that  many  flowers,  ancient  and  modern, 
were  pressed  between  its  leaves.  Here  was  a rose  from 
Eve’s  bridal  bower,  and  all  those  red  and  white  roses 
which  were  plucked  in  the  garden  of  the  Temple  by 
the  partisans  of ‘York  and  Lancaster.  Here  was  Hal- 
leck’s  Wild  Rose  of  Alloway.  Cowper  had  contributed 
a Sensitive  Plant,  and  Wordsworth  an  Eglantine,  and 
Burns  a Mountain  Daisy,  and  Kirke  White  a Star  of 
Bethlehem,  and  Longfellow  a Sprig  of  Fennel,  with  its 
yellow  flowers.  James  Russell  Lowell  had  given  a 
Pressed  Flower,  but  fragrant  still,  which  had  been 
shadowed  in  the  Rhine.  There  was  also  a sprig  from 
Southey’s  Holly  Tree.  One  of  the  most  beautiful 
specimens  was  a Fringed  Gentian,  which  had  been 
plucked  and  preserved  for  immortality  by  Bryant. 
From  Jones  Very,  a poet  whose  voice  is  scarcely  heard 
among  us  by  reason  of  its  depth,  there  was  a Wind 
Flower  and  a Columbine. 

As  I closed  Cornelius  Agrippa’s  magic  volume,  an 
old,  mildewed  letter  fell  upon  the  floor.  It  proved  to 
be  an  autograph  from  the  Flying  Dutchman  to  his 
wife.  I could  linger  no  longer  among  books ; for  the 
afternoon  was  waning,  and  there  was  yet  much  to  see. 
The  bare  mention  of  a few  more  curiosities  must 


292 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


suffice.  The  immense  skull  of  Polyphemus  was  recog- 
nizable by  the  cavernous  hollow  in  the  centre  of  the 
forehead  where  once  had  blazed  the  giant’s  single  eye. 
The  tub  of  Diogenes,  Medea’s  caldron,  and  Psyche’s 
vase  of  beauty  were  placed  one  within  another.  Pan- 
dora’s box,  without  the  lid,  stood  next,  containing  nothing 
but  the  girdle  of  Venus,  which  had  been  carelessly  flung 
into  it.  A bundle  of  birch  rods  which  had  been  used 
by  Shenstone’s  schoolmistress  were  tied  up  with  the 
Countess  of  Salisbury’s  garter.  I knew  not  which  to 
value  most,  a roc’s  egg  as  big  as  an  ordinary  hogshead, 
or  the  shell  of  the  egg  which  Columbus  set  upon  its 
end.  Perhaps  the  most  delicate  article  in  the  whole 
museum  was  Queen  Mab’s  chariot,  which,  to  guard  it 
from  the  touch  of  meddlesome  fingers,  was  placed 
under  a glass  tumbler. 

Several  of  the  shelves  were  occupied  by  specimens 
of  entomology.  Feeling  but  little  interest  in  the  science 
I noticed  only  Anacreon’s  grasshopper,  and  a humble 
bee  which  had  been  presented  to  the  virtuoso  by  Ralph 
Waldo  Emerson. 

In  the  part  of  the  hall  which  we  had  now  reached  I 
observed  a curtain,  that  descended  from  the  ceiling  to 
the  floor  in  voluminous  folds,  of  a depth,  richness,  and 
magnificence  which  I had  never  seen  equalled.  It  was 
not  to  be  doubted  that  this  splendid  though  dark  and 
solemn  veil  concealed  a portion  of  the  museum  even 
richer  in  wonders  than  that  through  which  I had  already 
passed  ; but,  on  my  attempting  to  grasp  the  edge  of 
the  curtain  and  draw  it  aside,  it  proved  to  be  an  illusive 
picture. 

“ You  need  not  blush,”  remarked  the  virtuoso ; “ for 


a virtuoso’s  collection. 


293 


that  same  curtain  deceived  Zeuxis.  It  is  the  celebrated 
painting  of  Parrhasius.” 

In  a range  with  the  curtain  there  were  a number  of 
other  choice  pictures  by  artists  of  ancient  days.  Here 
was  the  famous  cluster  of  grapes  by  Zeuxis,  so  admira- 
bly depicted  that  it  seemed  as  *f  the  ripe  juice  were 
bursting  forth.  As  to  the  picture  of  the  old  woman  by 
the  same  illustrious  painter,  and  which  was  so  ludicrous 
that  he  himself  died  with  laughing  at  it,  I cannot  say 
that  it  particularly  moved  my  risibility.  Ancient  hu- 
mor seems  to  have  little  power  over  modern  muscles. 
Here,  also,  was  the  horse  painted  by  Apelles  which 
living  horses  neighed  at ; his  first  portrait  of  Alexander 
the  Great,  and  his  last  unfinished  picture  of  Venus 
asleep.  Each  of  these  works  of  art,  together  with 
others  by  Parrhasius,  Timanthes,  Polygnotus,  Apollo- 
dorus,  Pausias,  and  Pamphilus,  required  more  time  and 
study  than  I could  bestow  for  the  adequate  perception 
of  their  merits.  I shall  therefore  leave  them  unde- 
scribed and  uncriticized,  nor  attempt  to  settle  the  ques- 
tion of  superiority  between  ancient  and  modern  art. 

For  the  same  reason  I shall  pass  lightly  over  the 
specimens  of  antique  sculpture  which  this  indefatigable 
and  fortunate  virtuoso  had  dug  out  of  the  dust  of  fallen 
empires.  Here  was  iEtion’s  cedar  statue  of  iEscula- 
pius,  much  decayed,  and  Alcon’s  iron  statue  of  Hercules, 
lamentably  rusted.  Here  was  the  statue  of  Victory,  six 
feet  high,  which  the  Jupiter  Olympus  of  Phidias  had 
held  in  his  hand.  Here  was  a forefinger  of  the  Colos- 
sus of  Rhodes,  seven  .Jeet  in  length.  Here  was  the 
Venus  Urania  of  Phidias,  and  other  images  of  male 
and  female  beauty  or  grandeur,  wrought  by  sculptors 


294 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


who  appear  never  to  have  debased  their  souls  by  the 
sight  of  any  meaner  forms  than  those  of  gods  or  godlike 
mortals.  But  the  deep  simplicity  of  these  great  works 
was  not  to  be  comprehended  by  a mind  excited  and  dis- 
turbed, as  mine  was,  by  the  various  objects  that  had  re- 
cently been  presented  to  it.  I therefore  turned  away 
with  merely  a passing  glance,  resolving  on  some  future 
occasion  to  brood  over  each  individual  statue  and  pic- 
ture until  my  inmost  spirit  should  feel  their  excellence. 
In  this  department,  again,  I noticed  the  tendency  to 
whimsical  combinations  and  ludicrous  analogies  which 
seemed  to  influence  many  of  the  arrangements  of  the 
museum.  The  wooden  statue  so  well  known  as  the 
Palladium  of  Troy  was  placed  in  close  apposition  with 
the  wooden  head  of  General  Jackson  which  was  stolen 
a few  years  since  from  the  bows  of  the  frigate  Con- 
stitution. 

We  had  now  completed  the  circuit  of  the  spacious 
hall,  and  found  ourselves  again  near  the  door.  Feeling 
somewhat  wearied  with  the  survey  of  so  many  novel- 
ties and  antiquities,  I sat  down  upon  Cowper’s  sofa, 
while  the  virtuoso  threw  himself  carelessly  into  Rabe- 
lais’ easy  chair.  Casting  my  eyes  upon  the  opposite 
wall,  I was  surprised  to  perceive  the  shadow  of  a man 
flickering  unsteadily  across  the  wainscot,  and  looking 
as  if  it  were  stirred  by  some  breath  of  air  that  found  its 
way  through  the  door  or  windows.  No  substantial 
figure  was  visible  from  which  this  shadow  might  be 
thrown ; nor,  had  there  been  such,  was  there  any 
sunshine  that  would  have  caused  it  to  darken  upon  the 
wall. 

44  It  is  Peter  Schlemihl’s  shadow,”  observed  the  vir- 


A VIRTUOSO  S COLLECTION. 


295 


tuoso,  “ and  one  of  the  most  valuable  articles  in  my 
collection.” 

“ Methinks  a shadow  would  have  made  a fitting  door- 
keeper to  such  a museum,”  said  I ; “ although,  indeed, 
yonder  figure  has  something  strange  and  fantastic 
about  him,  which  suits  well  enough  with  many  of  the 
impressions  which  I have  received  here.  Pray,  who 
is  he  ? ” 

While  speaking,  I gazed  more  scrutinizingly  than 
before  at  the  antiquated  presence  of  the  person  who  had 
admitted  me,  and  who  still  sat  on  his  bench  with  the 
same  restless  aspect,  and  dim,  confused,  questioning 
anxiety  that  I had  noticed  on  my  first  entrance.  At 
this  moment  he  looked  eagerly  towards  us,  and,  half 
starting  from  his  seat,  addressed  me. 

“ I beseech  you,  kind  sir,”  said  he,  in  a cracked, 
melancholy  tone,  “ have  pity  on  the  most  unfortunate 
man  in  the  world.  For  Heaven’s  sake,  answer  me  a 
single  question  ! Is  this  the  town  of  Boston  ? ” 

“ You  have  recognized  him  now,”  said  the  virtuoso. 
“ It  is  Peter  Rugg,  the  missing  man.  I chanced  to 
meet  him  the  other  day  still  in  search  of  Boston,  and 
conducted  him  hither ; and,  as  he  could  not  succeed  in 
finding  his  friends,  I have  taken  him  into  my  service  as 
doorkeeper.  He  is  somewhat  too  apt  to  ramble,  but 
otherwise  a man  of  trust  and  integrity.” 

“ And  might  I venture  to  ask,”  continued  I,  “ to 
whom  am  I indebted  for  this  afternoon’s  gratification  ? ” 
The  virtuoso,  before  replying,  laid  his  hand  upon  an 
antique  dart,  or  javelin,  the  rusty  steel  head  of  which 
seemed  to  have  been  blunted,  as  if  it  had  encountered 
the  resistance  of  a tempered  shield,  or  breastplate. 


296 


MOSSES  FROM  AN  OLD  MANSE. 


“ My  name  has  not  been  without  its  distinction  in  the 
world  for  a longer  period  than  that  of  any  other  man 
alive,1’  answered  he.  “ Yet  many  doubt  of  my  exist- 
ence ; perhaps  you  will  do  so  to-morrow.  This  dart 
which  I hold  in  my  hand  was  once  grim  Death’s  own 
weapon.  It  served  him  well  for  the  space  of  four  thou- 
sand years  ; but  it  fell  blunted,  as  you  see,  when  he 
directed  it  against  my  breast/” 

These  words  were  spoken  with  the  calm  and  cold 
courtesy  of  manner  that  had  characterized  this  singular 
personage  throughout  our  interview.  I fancied,  it  is 
true,  that  there  was  a bitterness  indefinably  mingled 
with  his  tone,  as  of  one  cut  off  from  natural  sympathies 
and  blasted  with  a doom  that  had  been  inflicted  on  no 
other  human  being,  and  by  the  results  of  which  he  had 
ceased  to  be  human.  Yet,  withal,  it  seemed  one  of  the 
most  terrible  consequences  of  that  doom  that  the  vic- 
tim no  longer  regarded  it  as  a calamity,  but  had  finally 
accepted  it  as  the  greatest  good  that  could  have  befallen 
him. 

u You  are  the  Wandering  Jew  ! ” exclaimed  I. 

The  virtuoso  bowed  without  emotion  of  any  kind ; 
for,  by  centuries  of  custom,  he  had  almost  lost  the  sense 
of  strangeness  in  his  fate,  and  was  but  imperfectly  con- 
scious of  the  astonishment  and  awe  with  which  it  affect- 
ed such  as  are  capable  ot  death. 

“ Your  doom  is  indeed  a fearful  one  ! ” said  I,  with 
irrepressible  feeling  and  a frankness  that  afterwards 
startled  me ; “ yet  perhaps  the  ethereal  spirit  is  not 
entirely  extinct  under  all  this  corrupted  or  frozen 
mass  of  earthly  life.  Perhaps  the  immortal  spark  may 
yet  be  rekindled  bv  a breath  of  heaven.  Perhaps  you 


A virtuoso’s  collection. 


29T 


may  yet  be  permitted  to  die  before  it  is  too  late  to  live 
eternally.  You  have  my  prayers  for  such  a consum- 
mation. Farewell.” 

u Your  prayers  will  be  in  vain,”  replied  be,  with  a 
smile  of  cold  triumph.  u My  destiny  is  linked  with  the 
realities  of  earth.  You  are  welcome  to  your  visions  and 
shadows  of  a future  state  ; but  give  me  what  I can  see, 
and  touch,  and  understand,  and  I ask  no  more.” 

“ It  is  indeed  too  late,”  thought  I.  “ The  soul  is  dead 
within  him.” 

Struggling  between  pity  and  horror,  I extended  my 
hand,  to  which  the  virtuoso  gave  his  own,  still  with  the 
habitual  courtesy  of  a man  of  the  woftd,  but  without  a 
single  heart  throb  of  human  brotherhood.  The  touch 
seemed  like  ice,  yet  I know  not  whether  morally  or 
physically.  As  I departed,  he  bade  me  observe  that 
the  inner  door  of  the  hall  was  constructed  with  the  ivory 
leaves  of  the  gateway  through  which  Aeneas  and  the 
Sibyl  had  been  dismissed  from  Hades. 


THE  END. 


. 


I 


V 


